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Chapter 1
New Boy in the Village
Megan spotted the new boy in the village as she trudged up the hill hefting a basket of groceries. It had been three months since he and his unsociable guardians had moved into Ramshackle Bottom, but the boy was shy and kept his head low, never speaking to anyone if he could help it. This was the first time Megan had seen him out and about.
He was coming the other way, walking quickly down the dusty path toward the market square, staring at his feet and avoiding eye contact with everyone he passed. Stepping to one side, Megan placed the basket at her feet and flexed her aching fingers. She waited there in the afternoon sun, grateful for the brief rest and a chance to study the boy as he approached.
When he avoided her gaze, she stepped into his path. He stopped abruptly, mumbled something like an apology as he stared at the ground, and tried to sidle around her. But Megan wasn’t used to being ignored and again stepped into his path.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re the new boy.”
The boy nodded and sidestepped, but Megan playfully sidestepped with him. The boy finally lifted his face and frowned at her, his cheeks flushed.
“Excuse me,” he grumbled.
“Not until you tell me your name,” Megan said firmly. She planted her hands on her hips.
The boy stared at her, still frowning. His dark brown eyes were almost hidden behind shaggy fair hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in a week. His face was long and thin, his ears jutting, and he had fuzz on his chin and around the corners of his mouth. His clothes were plain and ordinary, a baggy gray shirt that was a size or three too large, and brown trousers that were so long they dragged in the dirt.
Finally he sighed and shrugged. “Quincy Flack.”
Megan broke into a grin. “Quincy! That’s my very favorite boy’s name!”
“Yeah,” Quincy said, rolling his eyes. “Of course it is. I should have known.”
“But it is,” Megan protested. “It really is. Why would I lie about something like that?”
“No, I believe you,” Quincy said. “It’s just that . . . well . . . never mind.”
Standing straight and politely holding out her hand, Megan put on her best formal voice that her father had taught her from his days working at the castle. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Megan Mugwood.”
“And I’ve got to go,” Quincy mumbled. He nipped past before Megan could react.
She called out, “Well, nice to meet you, Quincy, but I can’t stand here chatting all day. See you around.”
Quincy completely ignored her and hurried on down the hill to the market.
Megan huffed with indignation, picked up her basket, and continued on home. How dare he ignore her like that! Well, if he was hoping to make friends here in Ramshackle Bottom, he was going the wrong way about it. She vowed not to bother speaking to him again, even if he came right up to her and started a conversation.
It was a shame, though. Megan had a couple of friends in the village, but they were three years younger than herself. This new boy looked about fourteen. Megan was twelve, but it was well known that girls matured earlier than boys, so a boy of fourteen would have been about right for her to make friends with. Except that he’d turned out to be rude and unsociable.
She arrived home and picked her way along the winding garden path. The lawn was overgrown and the dry, knee-high grass almost buried the oval stone slabs that formed the pathway to the front door. Weeds stuck up between the slabs and Megan stamped on them as she always did.
She pushed open the stout oak door and found her mother sitting in the dingy living room, sewing a patch on one of her skirts. She smiled as Megan entered, and looked at the basket expectantly. “Did you get everything?”
Megan nodded and heaved the basket onto the dining table. “Yes, and I have a few spare pennies because Mr. Frobisher had some bread left over from yesterday, which was cheaper.”
“Good girl,” Megan’s mother said, nodding. “Put the pennies away safely, then.”
While Megan levered up the loose floorboard in the corner of the room and dropped the coins into a pouch, she told her mother about her brief meeting with the new boy.
“Oh, you met him, did you?” her mother said. “Word is spreading about that boy. Apparently he’s trouble to be around.”
“Why?” Megan asked, puzzled.
Her mother shrugged. “Misfortune follows him wherever he goes, so I hear. But someone else told me good fortune follows him, too. I suppose it’s all nonsense, really. The poor boy’s parents are dead, and he lives with his Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Victor, who don’t like him very much.”
Megan immediately felt sympathy for the rude boy. “His name’s Quincy,” she said. “He doesn’t talk much, though. Maybe he’s just shy.”
Her mother nodded, put her dress and darning needle aside, and stood up. She took the basket into the cramped kitchen and began to unpack it, talking over her shoulder. “You should try to find out whether it’s good or bad luck that follows him around, my dear. If it’s true that good things happen to him, it might pay to be in his company.” She turned and winked at Megan. “We could do with some good fortune.”
“But what if it’s bad luck that follows him around?” Megan mused. “We certainly don’t need any more of that!”
Her mother paused with an onion in her hand and stared into space for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “No, we don’t.” She gave Megan a weak smile. “Things will get better, my dear. Someday a good, honest, working man will come along and marry me, and we’ll be a family again. Maybe then we’ll be able to afford to buy another goat to keep the grass in check, and a cow so we can produce our own milk.”
“And we’ll pay someone to fix the leaking roof, and we’ll buy new clothes,” Megan said dreamily. She stepped over to her mother and hugged her around the waist. “It’ll be okay, Mother. Our luck will change soon.”
They held each other tight for a long moment, and Megan felt warm tears dropping into her hair.
* * *
Megan waited behind a large white oak tree, peering around the trunk at the small, ramshackle cottage that stood in the shade beneath more white oaks. It had once belonged to a crotchety old woman, but she had passed away a while back. Now the new boy and his guardians had bought the place and moved in.
Thin wisps of smoke rose from the stone chimney, and Megan could smell beef cooking. Although she’d already eaten potatoes, eggs and green vegetables for dinner, still the smell of roasting beef made her stomach growl.
But she wasn’t there to scrounge for food. She wanted to meet the new boy, Quincy, again. This time she would make sure he stood still long enough that she could really talk to him, get to know him—perhaps even become friends with him. Still, she was nervous. Should she knock on the door, or wait where she was in the hope he might step outside? If she knocked on the door, would his uncle and aunt be pleased to see her and happily introduce her to their nephew? Or would they just tell her to go away?
On the other hand, if she just hung around outside, she could be there for hours—and Quincy might never show.
Megan decided to try something else. She crept through the trees and bushes to the side of the cottage and peered through the nearest window into a small dining room. It was empty. She moved on around the building to the next window and glanced in, keeping her head low. A large, red-faced woman stood in the kitchen, hands planted on her enormous hips. She had a terrible scowl on her face.
Quincy was there, sweeping broken glass into a neat pile in the middle of the floor. He flinched every time the woman opened her mouth and barked something at him. “You missed a bit!” she snapped, her voice perfectly clear to Megan even through the closed window. “And there! Get that bit too!”
Megan saw Quincy’s lips moving but heard nothing. His ear seemed red. Moments later, Megan saw why: the woman gave Quincy a heavy-handed clip on the side of his head, causing him to stumble sideways.
“You and your bad luck,” the woman said loudly, and turned away. She stopped in the doorway and pointed at him. “You’ll pay for that vase with your dinner tonight. Don’t even think about asking to be fed, young man. You can go out to the garden and scavenge for mice. That’s all you’re fit for.”
Megan’s mouth dropped open. That poor boy! The fat aunt stomped away, leaving Quincy to scoop the glass carefully into a dustpan and deposit it into a trash basket by the wall.
Megan sidled away from the cottage and returned to her hiding place behind the tree. She sat on the grass and pondered. Getting to know Quincy might be a bad idea if he was cursed with rotten luck. But what if good things happened too? She needed to find out for sure. Besides, she felt sorry for him now that she’d seen with her own eyes what a nasty old witch his aunt was. It seemed he had no one—no parents or friends, just an aunt and uncle who thought him a nuisance.
She wondered where Quincy’s uncle was, and what he was like. But as soon as the thought popped into her mind, a tiny man appeared beside her, and she almost jumped out of her skin. She leapt to her feet and stifled a scream.
The man had the tiniest, nastiest eyes she had ever seen, a bald, elongated head, and a long, jutting chin. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from behind oversized ears. He was no taller than Megan herself, and very thin. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up, and veins stuck out all down the length of his bare forearms and the backs of his hands.
“Who are you?” he barked. His voice was high and nasally.
“M-M-Megan.”
The man stared at her, then shrugged. “Don’t mean nothing to me. Whaddayer want? What you hiding out here for?”
“Just . . . just waiting to see Quincy,” Megan said, her voice shaking. The man smelled of sweat.
He sneered. “So what are you, his girlfriend or somethin’? Don’t waste yer time on him, darlin’—he ain’t worth a flip.”
Megan’s anger flared, along with a touch of embarrassment. “I’m not his girlfriend! We’ve hardly even spoken. I just—”
“Oh, be quiet, girlie,” the man said rudely, and stalked off. Megan stared in amazement as he disappeared into the cottage. The door slammed behind him and, just like that, he was gone.
“So rude,” Megan muttered. Flustered, she came out from behind the tree and stepped back onto the path. Casting one final look at the cottage, she sighed and ambled away.
Well, perhaps she’d watch for Quincy at the market. He was bound to show up there again tomorrow or the next day. She’d just hang around longer than normal until she spotted him. But she wasn’t coming back to the cottage again, that much was certain! His aunt and uncle were horrible. Of all the nasty, rude—
“Hey.”
Megan spun around. Quincy was trotting along the path toward her. He slowed and stopped a few paces away. He looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes downward.
“Um,” he mumbled. “Uncle Victor said some girl was asking for me.”
“Some girl . . .?” Megan fumed.
“That’s what he said. He’s always rude. So’s Aunt Gertrude.”
Megan watched as Quincy absently scuffed his toe in the dirt and turned a small rock over. He refused to meet her gaze, and finally Megan stepped closer. “Seems to me like you need a friend around here,” she said softly, holding out her hand.
Quincy tentatively took it. Megan shook his hand hard, and when she let go he gazed dumbly at it as if something had just stung him. After a while he lifted his brown eyes to her. “I’m not used to having friends.”
“We’ll soon change that,” Megan assured him. Then she shrugged. “That is, if you want to be friends.”
“You might not want to know me,” Quincy said seriously. “I can bring bad luck. And good luck, too, but it’s pretty random. If you hang around with me, you might find a gold coin but accidentally drop it in the river. Or you’ll smash a vase the very moment you find out it’s actually worth quite a bit. Or . . . well, much worse can happen. That’s how my parents died.”
Megan’s eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth. “How did it happen?”
It was a long while before Quincy spoke. He chewed his lip and stared at her thoughtfully. Then he sighed. “One night, when I was six months old, our house caught fire. My father was away at another village at the time. My mother was overcome by smoke and never woke up. By the time the neighbors knew of the fire, the whole house was burning. One of the neighbors heard a baby crying—me—and rushed in to save me.” Quincy spoke in a dull monotone as if reciting the words from a well-memorized script.
“That’s awful!” Megan cried.
“Two years later, my father died in a freak accident. It was a bad winter, and he left the house one morning and stood just outside under the eaves. Of all the places to stand, he picked the place where a large icicle was hanging.”
“It . . . it fell on him?” Megan whispered in horror.
Quincy shook his head. “No, it missed. But it startled him so much he leapt back out of the way and slipped on an icy patch. He fell and banged his head.”
“And that killed him?”
“No,” Quincy said, shaking his head again. “He lay there awhile, dazed. Then a hungry wolf came out of the woods and smelled the blood that was trickling from his head—”
Megan clasped both hands to the sides of her face. “It ate him?”
“What?” Quincy frowned. “No, no, nothing like that. It wanted to, but my father struggled to his feet and made it inside safely. Later that day, he told the neighbors all about his narrow escape, which is how I know all this today.” He sighed and shrugged. “My father’s story worried some of the villagers because we weren’t used to having wolves stray so close to our homes. So a group of men went out and headed up to the woods beyond where I used to live to hunt down this wolf.”
Now Megan was confused. “So . . . how did . . . ?”
“How did my father die? A stray arrow caught him. The hunters were on the hill, and they fired at the wolf, but it missed and kept on going—missed all the trees, shot out of the forest, slipped through a tiny gap in the open living room window, and got my father in the head.”
“Oh!”
“When my father died, I went to live with my Aunt Josephine and Uncle Gilderoy in Bramble Wood. I was still just a toddler then. They were good people, but life was hard for them with me around. For eight years they suffered all sorts of bad fortune, and although they never once blamed me openly, I think they saw me as a curse, the root of all their troubles.”
Megan swallowed. “So . . . what happened to them?”
“They died in a freak accident at the market when I was ten.”
“I’m so sorry,” Megan gasped. “You must miss them terribly. And so now you’re with other relatives?”
Quincy nodded. “Uncle Victor is my father’s younger brother, so he and Aunt Gertrude came forward and claimed whatever possessions would fetch a penny or two. Of course, that meant adopting me as well.” He made a face. “Rotten eggs, both of them. I’m nothing but a slave. In fact, three months ago I was so fed up that I ran away. Walked all day and ended up in a forest outside Gromble Gorge near the castle, where I found a leather bag full of treasure.”
“You found treasure?”
“A leather bag, just sitting there wide open, stuffed full of gold and diamonds. I thought Uncle Victor and Aunt Gertrude would go easier on me if we were rich, so I dragged it home.”
Megan sucked in a breath and stepped back. “You stole it?”
“Hey, it was a case of finders keepers,” Quincy said. He huffed up and glowered at her.
She pursed her lips. “If you say so. I’m not sure King Frederick would see it that way.”
Quincy glared at her a bit longer, and then his gaze fell. “You’re probably right. My uncle and aunt sure packed up and left in a hurry. People in Bramble Wood would have been suspicious if we’d suddenly come into a lot of wealth and paid off all our debts. So we moved here to Ramshackle Bottom. Since the treasure is lost property, it would have been safer to move someplace faraway, but Uncle Victor said it’s much easier to sell valuable jewels in the towns near the castle. There’s a ‘healthy black market,’ as Uncle calls it. We’ve been here three months now.”
Megan was astounded—and worried. If Quincy’s luck was that random, maybe it would be better to stay away from him.
He seemed to sense what she was thinking and turned away. “I understand. Thanks for thinking of me, though. It’s been a long time since anyone even spoke to me.” Anxiety crept across his face. “I may have said too much. You, uh . . . you won’t say anything to anyone about the treasure, will you?”
“I won’t say a word,” Megan promised, still trying to process the information.
He nodded and trudged off along the path, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.
A surge of guilt swept over Megan, and before she could stop herself, she called out, “Quincy! Wait. Don’t go.”
Quincy stopped and turned slowly.
“How about we try things out?” Megan said. “Until bad things start happening to me.”
Quincy looked hopeful, but wary too. “Things aren’t always really bad, just annoying. If something can go wrong, it does, but not usually in a life-threatening way. It’s normally just small, irritating stuff. And things can go well, too. It’s pretty random.” His brow furrowed. “But I should warn you. Knowing my luck, the next really bad life-threatening thing that happens could happen to you.”
Megan nodded and looked around nervously. “I’ll keep an eye open.” Then she smiled. “Would you like to walk? I’ll show you around the village, if you like?”
There was a long pause, and then a smile crept over Quincy’s face and his eyes twinkled beneath his mop of hair. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
Chapter 2
Knight of the Oblong Table
Lawrence was a knight, though unfortunately not a very good one. He was clumsy with the lance, hopeless with the sword, and he had a lot of trouble getting on and off his horse due to his heavy armor.
He was fed up with the jibes and snickers aimed at him by the other knights of the castle. They all stood taller than he, and carried themselves with an air of grace Lawrence could only dream of. And in battle training, the others possessed strength, agility, and cunning that Lawrence could never hope to achieve. He had only been knighted by King Frederick IV out of sympathy for his valiant but feeble efforts to vanquish one of the local dragons.
It had happened three months ago. Lawrence remembered the day well. As dawn broke across the land, the dragon had stomped out of the forest and headed toward Castle Frederick. It had been a long time since any wars had been fought, and while it was good policy to have an army of trained soldiers and special knights at the ready, generally security around the castle was a little lax. The dragon had waltzed straight across the drawbridge and into the courtyard before anyone even noticed it was there.
Panic and confusion ensued. Screams in the courtyard woke the king, and he stumbled to the window to look down upon a frightening scene. Only one knight was ready for action that morning, and that was Lawrence, hopeful Knight Trainee. The rest of the knights were still fumbling to get dressed as Lawrence, already resplendent in full battle armor and loaded down with a mace and a sword, dashed outside to save the day in front of hundreds of terrified castle residents. Even the foot soldiers looked upon him with awe and gratitude as he drew his sword and prepared to vanquish the dragon.
Lawrence had felt wonderful that morning. He had no idea why the dragon had decided to attack the castle, but he didn’t care. His day had come.
Of course, vanquishing dragons was not as easy as all that. When he attacked, it simply offered him a contemptible glance and breathed fire in his direction, and Lawrence’s splendid purple cape promptly disintegrated into a black, smoldering pile of ash, and his armor heated up so much that he was forced to dive into the horses’ water trough to cool off.
He was not put off easily, though. As the dragon marched toward a small group of well-dressed courtiers who stood rooted to the spot in fear, Lawrence dashed to the rescue. He retrieved his slightly warped sword, caught up to the dragon, and jabbed it in the foot. It stopped, turned, glared at him, and swished its tail. Lawrence flew sideways, skidded across the cobbled courtyard, and bumped his head against a stone wall.
The dragon began pawing at the ground, preparing to pounce on the courtiers. One of them snatched up a pitchfork and darted out to jab at the dragon’s underbelly. The monster jerked in surprise, stepping on the man seemingly by accident and crushing him.
The rest of the knights appeared at that moment. The bravest, Sir Merrivale, casually waved the others aside and took a stand before the dragon, hands on hips. The dragon backed off, looking wary. Sir Merrivale showed no mercy. Quick as a flash, he drew his sword, jabbed upwards, and impaled the dragon through the chin. The sword poked right through and stuck out the top of its snout.
The dragon was enraged by this, but found it couldn’t open its mouth to roar. Instead it produced a muffled grump as a cloud of smoke billowed from its nostrils. All the knights found this highly amusing.
Lawrence rushed over and stood several paces from Sir Merrivale, defiantly holding aloft his crippled sword. Sir Merrivale shook his head and said, “I wouldn’t stand there if I were you,” and Lawrence looked around, wondering what he meant. The other knights guffawed from a safe distance, apparently understanding what was going to happen.
At that moment, the clatter of hoofs on cobblestones caused him to swing around. Too late, Lawrence realized he was standing directly in the path of soldiers on horseback as they galloped through an archway. Lawrence cowered on the ground as the horses leapt over him.
The soldiers surrounded the dragon, and the knights gathered around to slay it. Lawrence watched in dismay as they expertly jabbed and slashed and brought the dragon down in less than a minute. Then there were cheers, and the knights were heralded as heroes.
Except for Lawrence, who stood to one side, battered and bruised.
It was the story of his life. If only he could vanquish a dragon like all the other knights, he’d be looked upon with the respect normally bestowed on a knight . . .
That had all happened three months ago. Today, Lawrence sat astride a branch high in an old oak tree. He could see over the thick, prickly bushes that lined Tooth Walk, a pathway at the base of the mountains. Among the rocky outcroppings off the beaten track, dragons could sometimes be spotted foraging for small animals to munch on. Or, if they were feeling really hungry, they might be seen venturing out across the meadow where larger beasts like boar roamed. But the smaller, more timid dragons stuck to the mountain caves, swooping down to the ground like eagles, snatching their prey, and soaring safely back to their perches. They were rather like gargoyles, sitting perfectly still with leathery wings folded and red eyes staring unblinking at the ground a hundred feet below, drool running out of their mouths.
Lawrence was waiting. He knew he was in for a long wait, maybe days, but he was sure a dragon would venture close sooner or later. He doubted one would be so daring as to waltz into the castle again. That was a very unusual thing for a dragon to do no matter how big and brave it was, and still nobody knew to this day what its intentions had been. Some speculated it was simply hungry, but that made no sense since a field of cows was a much simpler target than a courtyard of humans. Others wondered if it had been angered by someone and had sought revenge, leading to discussions about the supposed intelligence and emotional state of what had previously been considered mindless monsters.
In any case, Lawrence hoped one would come to forage for field mice or something. Then he would strike. He would slay the dragon, cut off its head, stick it on the end of his lance, and ride triumphantly back to the castle. Then the other knights would pay him the respect he deserved.
He had a cramp in his right leg. He’d been in the tree since dawn, and it was well into the afternoon now. He might have to call it a day, maybe camp out for the night and resume his post in the morning.
As he was about to begin the arduous process of climbing down, voices came over the nearby rise. He paused to listen.
“. . . and my aunt keeps telling me I should try listening to her more often so I won’t keep making the same mistakes over and over. You know, like washing her best colored clothes in lye, or scrubbing too hard on the washboard, that sort of thing.”
“You wash clothes?” came a girl’s voice. “But you’re a boy!”
“I’m a slave as far as my aunt and uncle are concerned. She asked me yesterday why I don’t ever remember my mistakes and learn from them. I told her it’s senseless for two people to remember my mistakes. She wasn’t amused.”
There was a high-pitched giggle, and two figures came into view over the brow of the hill. Lawrence frowned. He recognized the young girl. Her name was Megan, a sweet child of about twelve, with long, straight brown hair. She wore a pretty red dress, though it was threadbare with a patch near the hem. The girl’s father had been killed in recent months, and her mother barely had two pennies to rub together.
The boy was a stranger. He wore plain brown trousers and a gray oversized shirt. His hair was a mess, and he had the meager beginnings of a beard, which looked more like a dirty smudge.
“How did . . . how did your father die?” the boy asked. Megan looked away, and the boy seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s okay. You told me about your parents, so it’s only fair I tell you about mine.”
Megan stopped, mere paces from the tree Lawrence hid in. He remained still, looking down on the pair.
“My father was a courtier at Castle Frederick,” Megan went on. “One of King Frederick’s faithful servants. He made quite a lot of money, so my mother told me, and we lived comfortably. He would work in the daytime, occasionally with overtime in the evening depending on what was going on at the castle. Each week he was paid a nice little pouch of gold. I always loved seeing the gleaming coins.”
“Me too,” the boy said, nodding. “But my uncle never lets me have more than a few pennies.”
“Anyway,” Megan said, “a few months ago, my father was in the castle courtyard discussing arrangements for the evening’s banquet when along came a dragon.”
“A dragon?” The boy looked amazed. “A dragon walked into the castle courtyard?”
Since this was a matter close to his heart, Lawrence decided there was no sense concealing his presence any longer. He spoke loudly. “And stamped on Megan’s father, yes.”
Both the boy and girl jumped wildly, and Megan clasped her chest as if to stop her heart from bursting right out. She glared up at Lawrence. “Who said that? Who are you?”
Lawrence eased himself into a better position so he could descend, his armor clanking as he twisted himself around. “Hold on, be right down.”
In the distance, church bells began to chime. The moment the first tolled, the branch Lawrence had been perching on all day creaked under his weight and began to splinter and pop. It sagged beneath him, then snapped in two, and Lawrence fell in a shower of leaves and twigs and clanking armor. The ground broke his fall, and the breath was knocked out of him. Leaves fluttered down around his head as he moaned in pain.
“Are you all right?” Megan gasped, reaching for him. She tried to help him up, but her young, delicate arms were no help at all with the amount of heavy armor he wore. He thanked her between wheezing breaths and struggled to sit up on his own. By the time he had composed himself, the distant chimes had died away.
“I never expected that,” Lawrence said finally, removing his helmet. “I’ve been on that branch all day, and it never gave any sign of cracking until just now.”
“Pure rotten luck, then,” muttered the boy.
Lawrence looked up at him. “And you are . . . ?”
“Quincy. I’m new in town.”
“I thought you must be,” Lawrence said. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I’m a knight of the Oblong Table, and I’m waiting for a dragon to come along so I can slay it.”
Megan raised her eyebrows. “You’re waiting for a dragon? But why? We don’t want a dragon to come along! That would be awful. Anyway, it’s unlikely. Dragons are normally fairly shy.”
Quincy gave a strange groan and glanced around, looking wary. “Uh-oh. This sounds ominous, Megan. We don’t want a dragon to come along, but this knight does. Bad luck for us, good luck for him. Sounds like an invitation.”
Lawrence stared at the boy, perplexed. “What are you going on about?”
Megan looked uneasy. “He’s just saying—”
A screech caught their attention, and they glanced in unison toward the mountain. A medium-sized rock dragon soared through the air toward them, its wings back and body streamlined for maximum speed. Its eyes glowed red, and white fangs glinted in the sunlight as the creature stretched its mouth wide.
“Great,” Quincy moaned, pulling Megan behind the broad trunk of the oak tree. He gave a yelp as he tripped on something shiny and fell headlong into a prickly bush, pulling Megan with him. When Quincy popped his head back out, he glared angrily at the object lying in the grass. “Who put that sword there?”
Lawrence snapped out of his reverie. He saw his sword shining in the grass and snatched it up, then moved out from under the tree into the field. The dragon screeched again and began flapping its wings to reduce speed for its final approach. It snapped its jaws viciously, stretching its neck, reaching for him as it swooped low and fast . . .
Lawrence ducked and slashed at the air—and missed. The dragon’s jaws glanced off his armored shoulder, and he toppled backward, sprawling heavily in the grass. With a rush of air and a deafening screech, the dragon soared past and up into the sky, brushing the tops of trees as it went. Twigs and leaves rained down.
“Come back!” Lawrence yelled, clambering to his feet. “Come back and be slain, dragon!”
“Shut up!” hissed the girl’s voice from within the bush. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
Lawrence ignored her. He waved his sword about and yelled until he was hoarse. The dragon circled around.
“Hey, I know you!” Megan exclaimed. Lawrence glanced across at her. She had a twig stuck in her hair. “I recognize the insignia on your armor. You’re Sir Lawrence, aren’t you?”
“Indeed I am,” Lawrence said, drawing himself up straight.
“I thought so! You’re the idiot who made a mess of slaying the dragon at the castle! If you’d gotten it right the first time, my father might still be alive!”
“Just our luck we’d have to run into him, then,” said Quincy, his muffled voice coming from deep within the bush. “A dragon slayer who can’t slay dragons.”
“I can slay dragons,” Lawrence retorted, his face reddening. “The one at the castle caught me by surprise. It won’t happen again. I’m fully trained and—”
At that moment, the dragon caught him by surprise and knocked him flying. Winded, he sailed through the air and landed with a heavy clank. The dragon grunted and made a sharp turn, heading back to finish him off. Lawrence gasped and struggled to his feet, then held aloft his sword.
Which he didn’t have anymore.
His fingers clenched and unclenched in surprise. Where’s my sword? he wondered. He turned quickly, scanning the long grass. My sword, my sword . . .
The dragon thumped down in the grass a few paces away, making the ground shake. Rearing up on hind legs, it spread its wings and towered over Lawrence. He stared up in horror as it bellowed and took in a deep breath. Then hot flames enveloped Lawrence, and he ran away screaming.
As he scampered across the meadow, he heard heavy, thumping footsteps closing the gap behind him. Not for the first time in his life, Lawrence’s scorched armor was scalding his skin. Horse trough! he thought wildly. Then he shook his head, got a hold of himself, and amended his thought. Water! Anything will do—a pond, a stream, anything!
He tripped and fell flat on his face. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. A gust of wind passed over him, and then a shadow, and when he looked up he saw the dragon right in front of him, also lying flat on its face. It had dove for him and missed. Now Lawrence couldn’t believe his good luck. He rolled over, climbed to his feet, and began to run back the way he had come. He needed his sword.
“Here!” Quincy called, rushing out from the bushes to pick something up. The sword! Lawrence saw it glinting in the sunlight as the boy threw it as hard as he could. It wasn’t a particularly heavy sword, and it spun end-to-end through the air with a whoosh-whooshing sound. Lawrence stopped, watching the spinning sword with sudden anxiety.
It hurtled toward him.
He yelled, turned, and ran back to the dragon, which was regaining its composure. Lawrence feared the sword would drive straight through his brain, but instead the flat edge bounced off his helmet, sending him face down into the grass once more.
“Sorry!” the boy yelled.
The dragon screeched and stomped closer. Through his visor, Lawrence saw the sword lying just out of reach. The dragon bore down on him. But by an unbelievable stroke of good fortune, the sword had landed against a small, solitary rock and lay tilted on its side with one sharp edge of the blade pointing upwards.
The dragon stepped on it, looked down, and gulped.
That’s going to smart, Lawrence thought.
The dragon’s eyes grew round when it saw the end of its foot cleanly severed and lying in the grass. The monster began to scream with anger and pain, awkwardly hopping around with one front leg lifted.
Lawrence seized his chance and climbed to his feet. He retrieved his sword and leapt at the dragon, slashing for all he was worth. Bits of the dragon flew off as he danced around, yelling and laughing. The creature snarled and snapped and screeched, trying to avoid the swishing blade. It breathed fire and whipped its tail around, but Lawrence suddenly found himself able to dodge everything the dragon could throw at him. He felt as though he were untouchable. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. He felt like . . . like . . . like a dragonslayer!
When it was over, he stood panting and dripping with gore. He pulled off his helmet, threw it aside, and marched back to the path. Megan and Quincy stood up and came out from behind the bush, their eyes wide.
“You see?” Lawrence yelled triumphantly. “I slew the dragon!” He stabbed the air with his sword. “My first one! When I get my breath back, I’ll go and retrieve my steed and my lance from the thicket yonder. I’ll stick the dragon’s head on the lance and ride back to the castle, and I’ll be greeted as a hero.”
“Why?” asked Quincy, frowning. “The dragon wasn’t hurting anyone. It would have been different if you’d killed that one at the castle, because then you’d have been saving people from being eaten. But this was just a dragon out looking for a small animal to eat. What’s heroic about killing it?”
Lawrence opened his mouth to retort, but the boy suddenly doubled up, clutching at his stomach and grimacing. The girl frowned and moved closer.
“Quincy? What’s wrong?”
“It’s just a feeling I get sometimes when . . .” He closed his eyes a moment.
“When what?” Megan asked.
“When something really bad is about to happen.”
Glancing around at the many pieces of dragon littering the field, and the main carcass bleeding out into the grass, Lawrence couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. “I’d say something bad already happened. Bad for the dragon, anyway.” He barked a laugh, then froze. “What’s that?”
Both Quincy and Megan turned to follow his gaze. There, suspended in mid-air a couple of feet off the ground, close to the bushes that lined the path, was a door. It was the sort of door normally found in castle dungeons and towers: sturdy oak planks lashed together and held fast with wrought-iron braces across the top and bottom. The frame—thin and a little warped—seemed incompatible with the door itself, perhaps a temporary measure. A single, worn plank was nailed to the base of the frame, holding the whole thing together.
“A . . . doorway,” Megan whispered.
“A doorway,” Quincy agreed. “That’s pretty weird.”
Lawrence was rooted to the spot. A tingling sensation was creeping up his spine. “That’s Pagfire’s magic doorway. He’s been watching us from up the mountain. He . . . he . . .”
“He what?” Megan asked, turning to gaze at him with wide eyes. “I’ve never heard of him.”
Lawrence backed away. “He’d better stay away from me,” he said hoarsely. He held up his sword and pointed it warningly at the doorway. “Keep away from me, old man! I haven’t done anything wrong! It was just a dragon!”
Quincy was striding toward the door. “This is amazing,” he said. He walked around and around the suspended doorway, then ducked and waved his hand underneath the threshold to verify that it was not standing on anything invisible. “Like magic!” he said. “It’s just hovering above the ground.” He reached out to touch the bottom horizontal iron brace. “It tingles.”
“Be careful,” Megan warned. “It might be dangerous.”
Just then, the door creaked opened to reveal a wizened old man and, behind him, a dark and cluttered room. Quincy gasped and stepped back.
Lawrence backed away, too, wondering if he could make a run for it. The old man shot him a glare, and tension boiled in the air for a moment. But then Pagfire turned to the boy and spoke in a sharp, booming voice.
“Come along.” He beckoned impatiently. “You, boy. Step through. And you, girl. I want to speak to you both.”
Chapter 3
Pagfire the Mountain Maker
Pagfire was annoyed. Looking out across the land from his living room window high up on the mountainside, he’d seen a glint of something metallic in the sunlight. Where was it? There!—down in the meadow, coming along Tooth Walk.
The meadow was a lush green carpet stretching all the way to the horizon. Ramshackle Bottom sprawled on the nearby hills, and a little farther away stood Castle Frederick. Far off in the distance, Gromble Gorge was just about visible in the morning mist.
As Pagfire trained his farlooker on the path at the foot of the mountain, a knight in shining armor appeared on the back of a small white stallion.
Pagfire straightened up, rubbed his eyes, and returned to the eyepiece. The farlooker was one of his proudest inventions, and certainly one of the most used. The small ant-like figure on the pathway zoomed into sharp focus as he looked through the lens, and he could make out the shining helmet and breast plate, and the long, colorful lance tethered awkwardly to the horse’s flanks.
To Pagfire’s dismay, the knight dismounted and led his horse out of sight among a cluster of trees. He emerged without his lance but hefted a sword as he continued along the path toward the mountain, apparently searching for something. Finally he stopped by an old oak tree and hoisted himself up onto a high branch. He settled there and waited, peering out across the meadow, occasionally glancing up at the mountain.
Pagfire sighed. He knew the knight was waiting for a dragon to come down to feed. Some of the dragons in these parts liked to forage for mice and bigger rodents in the field; it provided a great hunting ground, being a large, open plain with no trees to get in the way. Dragons liked to soar and swoop. They didn’t need to—they just liked to.
Well, with any luck, the knight would get bored with waiting and move on. Pagfire’s dragons kept to themselves for the most part, and he doubted one would approach if the smell of human was in the air.
Pagfire returned to his painting. It was a watercolor of truly spectacular scenery—a mirror-like lake nestled within a valley. Pagfire’s Peaks, he thought proudly. His magic door stood against a wall in his cluttered living room, and through the open doorway the lake shimmered under a deep blue sky. A soft breeze blew into the dark room and caressed Pagfire’s smoky gray beard and voluminous robes.
He lost track of time and forgot all about the knight until church bells sounded in the distance. “Six o’clock,” Pagfire mumbled as the sixth chime died away. There weren’t many villages that kept time the way Ramshackle Bottom did. In the nearby castle, King Frederick used actual timepieces to structure his day rather than relying on the sun or stars as many commoners across the land did. Being almost on his doorstep, the residents of Ramshackle Bottom strived to be punctual.
As Pagfire was adding highlights to the sides of the mountains on his canvas, a screech distracted him. He frowned, put down his paintbrush, and ambled over to the farlooker by the window. Even before he looked through the eyepiece, he saw one of his precious dragons swooping down to the field.
When he focused the lens, he saw a boy and girl on the path, talking to the knight, who had evidently fallen from his perch judging by the branch lying at his feet and the mess of twigs and leaves all around. Now, as the dragon swooped down from the mountain, the boy and girl tumbled into a bush, and the knight stood ready, sword held aloft. The fool completely missed cutting the dragon as it shot by overhead, but it wasn’t over yet.
Pagfire watched grimly as the scene unfolded. “Get him, my scaly friend,” he said softly as the rock dragon swept the knight off his feet and into the field. “That’s it—burn him, then chomp him up. That’ll teach the fool to meddle with—uh oh.” Things had taken a turn for the worse, and the dragon had fallen on its face. “Get up, get up,” Pagfire mumbled. “That’s it, get him! No, no, boy, don’t throw him the sword—ah, blast it.”
Things went from bad to worse as the dragon stepped on the sword and cut its own toes off. Pagfire closed his eyes and refused to watch the rest. He knew the dragon was about to be slain. When he finally opened his eyes again, he was saddened to see small chunks of his pet lying about in the blood-soaked grass, and the severed head with an expression of surprise on its face. “Oh, my poor young darling,” he said with a sigh.
Pondering, he wondered whether he should report the knight for his dastardly deed. The trouble was, King Frederick saw Pagfire as a disturbingly strange old coot and probably wouldn’t pay much attention—or worse, he’d pay too much attention and come nosing around, perhaps finding the magic door of immense interest and worthy of confiscation. Wizardry and witchcraft were generally frowned upon except when it suited the king, though Pagfire’s reputation was undeserved; dabbling in a bit of magic here and there didn’t necessarily make one a wizard, as he often found himself arguing.
He could, however, persuade the children to report the knight instead. They’d witnessed it first hand, after all.
With some reluctance, he closed his magic door, shutting out the beautiful valley scenery and plunging the room into darkness. It would be nigh impossible to return to that exact spot again, which meant he would never be able to finish his painting.
He put his hand on the doorframe and thought for a moment, thinking of the meadow at the foot of the mountain, willing the door to open there. When he opened it, light once more flooded the room, this time from the meadow. The boy stood directly outside, staring up at him in bewilderment, the girl a short distance away with one hand over her mouth.
The knight was in the process of sinking to his knees in the grass, a look of sheer fright on his face. Now that he could see him close up, Pagfire recognized the insignia on the knight’s armor. It was that fool Lawrence. Well, he would pay for his cruelty.
“Come along,” Pagfire said, beckoning to the boy. “You, boy. Step through. And you, girl. I want to speak to you both.”
He could barely contain his impatience as first the boy, then the girl, climbed up over the threshold and into his living room. The moment the girl was inside, Pagfire slammed the door, and the room darkened.
“Now, then,” he said, rubbing his hands and glancing from one surprised child to the next. “I wonder if you could assist me in teaching that nasty old knight a lesson? He just chopped up one of my pets, and—”
“Pets?” the boy said sharply. “The dragon was your pet?”
When Pagfire studied him closer, he felt sure he’d seen him before. Where, though? His memory wasn’t as good as it had once been. “All the dragons around these parts are my pets,” Pagfire told him. “Well, not officially, of course. I think of them as my friends the way you may think of a squirrel as your friend when it appears each morning in your garden.”
The boy and girl looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Look,” Pagfire said, “my name is Pagfire. And you are?”
The girl launched into polite introduction mode. “Hello, my name is Megan, and this is my friend, Quincy. We’re pleased to meet you.” That said, she sank once more into bewilderment.
Even the boy’s name didn’t ring a bell. Where had Pagfire seen him before?
“Well, yes, yes, pleased to meet you, too,” he said, waving his hand as if to swat a fly. “Now, listen, I need you to—”
“Nice painting,” Quincy interrupted, walking over to the canvas. “Where’s this?”
“What? Oh, it’s one of the lakes near the Unicorn Plains. Beautiful place. I call it Pagfire’s Peaks. But as I was saying—”
“You’ve been there?” Quincy asked, surprised. “Aren’t they on the other side of the world?”
Pagfire sighed. “No, boy, they’re just a few days’ journey away. But in any case, I can look out on the lakes anytime I please by opening the magic door. Look.” He put his hand on the frame, thought for a moment, willed it to open on the lake, and swung the door open.
Both Quincy and Megan exclaimed in amazement at the clear blue skies, shining water, and tall mountains that lay outside the doorway. But Pagfire was less impressed, having done the magic trick a million times already. “The only problem is that I can never quite find the exact same spot again. It’s a little too random. It’s the same lake, but I’m around the other side now. Not much use when I’m trying to paint a scene.”
Quincy narrowed his eyes. “Try it again.”
Pagfire frowned. “It’s no good, my boy—it’ll be a different place each time. I could open and close this door a thousand times and I’ll never end up back in the same place.”
“Try it again,” Quincy repeated firmly.
Something in his voice caused Pagfire to pause. He shrugged and closed the door. The room plunged into darkness. He placed his hand on the doorframe, thought for a moment, and swung the door open again. He stared out in astonishment. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he muttered, glancing from the door to the painting. “It’s the exact same place as before. But how—?”
“You just got lucky that time,” Quincy said, smiling. “It’ll never happen again.” He hung onto the frame and looked down. “We’re a few feet off the ground. Is that to prevent critters from getting in?”
“I don’t have that kind of control, boy,” Pagfire admitted ruefully. “Sometimes the doorframe stands at ground level. A squonk crept in one time. Frightfully ugly chap who refused to leave. Lots of hissing and cantankerous back and forth on both our parts before I persuaded him to leave with a good swift kick.”
Megan was looking around. “This is a very interesting place,” she remarked. “Is it yours?”
“Yes,” Pagfire said, still staring out the door. “And before you go nosing around, it consists of a large living room, a small kitchen, a small bedroom, and a small bathroom. Each room is as cluttered as the next, and no, it’s not particularly clean. I don’t believe in wasting time dusting things off when they’re just going to gather more dust shortly afterward.”
Megan had taken a book from a shelf. She blew on it and choked loudly. “Mountains By Design,” she read from the cover. “By Pagfire the Mountain Maker. Is that you? What does it mean, ‘Mountain Maker’?”
Pagfire’s impatience was returning. “I make mountains,” he snapped. “That’s what I do. I design and grow them.” He pointed to the scene outside the magic door. “Look—all the mountains at this very lake are mine. That’s why they’re called Pagfire’s Peaks.”
Seeing two gaping faces, he irritably waved his hand. “Never mind. I want you to report that evil knight for his wrongdoing. I can’t do it directly.” He scowled. “I’m a harmless old man, not a wizard, but I, um, meddle with spells from time to time, and I don’t want the king’s men nosing around here. But a couple of innocent children crying foul will work nicely. Will you help me?”
“Uh . . .” Quincy said.
“What’s in it for us?” Megan suddenly broke in. “Money?”
Pagfire scowled. “Money! What do you think I am? I don’t have any use for money, girl! I get everything I want by growing it. I have no money here.”
Megan’s shoulders slumped and her bottom lip stuck out.
Quincy glanced at her, then at Pagfire. “Her mother doesn’t have much,” he explained. “Her father used to work at the castle until a dragon waltzed in and ate him. One of your dragons, actually,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“Never!” Pagfire retorted—and then a memory popped into this head. “Oh, wait. A few months ago, right?”
“Yes,” Megan said shortly.
“The adult male forest dragon . . . I remember now. Nobody knows why it attacked the castle. Nobody but me, that is.”
The children stared at him in surprise. “You know why it attacked?” Megan said.
Her voice contained a hint of disbelief. Pagfire drew himself up as tall as his bent old frame would allow. “It was annoyed because someone had stolen its treasure. It was quite a smart dragon, that one. It must have assumed the humans at the castle were responsible and went to reclaim the treasure it had been entrusted with. Not one of mine, though,” he added.
Quincy gaped at Megan, and she gaped back. Pagfire looked from one to the other, wondering what was running through their minds. He went on. “The dragon was slain, of course, but the treasure was never recovered.”
“So it was your fault!” Megan cried, punching Quincy’s arm.
“It was not!” he protested. “How was I to know the treasure I found was protected by a dragon? I didn’t see any dragons when I found the bag and ran off with it. And anyway, it wasn’t my fault that stupid knight couldn’t slay it in time.”
“He wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t stolen the treasure,” Megan retorted.
Quincy flared up. “I didn’t steal it. I found it.”
Light dawned. Now Pagfire remembered the boy. “It was you who took the treasure from the forest. I saw you.”
The boy’s mouth dropped open. “You were there?”
“Sort of. Do you have the treasure?”
“No,” Quincy said sullenly. “My aunt and uncle took it from me. Never seen it since. And they’ll never tell you where it is, either, so you might as well forget about it.”
There was a long silence. Pagfire turned his back on the boy and girl and went to the window, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. He’d been planning on getting the children to report the knight’s heartless dragon-slaughtering to the king. A tearful account from two innocent, heartbroken, possibly scarred-for-life children would have made that armor-clad fool look very bad indeed, even more a bumbling, sniveling coward than he already was.
But now all that seemed petty and insignificant. Finding the treasure was far more important. He’d kept quiet about the time he’d opened his magic door and seen a boy steal a bag of treasure followed by a dragon roaring in anger. Pagfire had shut the door again in a hurry. The next morning he’d heard news of that same dragon being slain in the castle courtyard. He’d considered telling the king what he’d witnessed, but getting involved would have brought nothing but trouble. King Frederick would have found a way to blame Pagfire for something.
Still, if he could find that treasure, he would be in the king’s good graces for eternity. All he wanted was to be left alone with what many considered his ‘ungodly eccentricities.’ And there would likely be a reward, which Pagfire had no interest in personally but felt sure it would be appreciated by those more deserving. Like Megan’s poor mother, and perhaps this boy who looked like he needed a decent meal or two.
He swung around. “Children, I have an idea. How would you like to be rich?”
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