Double Dragon Trouble

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Double Dragon Trouble
is doubly dedicated to
Daniel Worsham Daniel Worsham—K.M.

To Joyce and Camille, my very lovely
sisters-in-law—B.B.

GROSSET & DUNLAP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Text copyright © 2005 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright © 2005 by Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. DRAGON SLAYERS' ACADEMY and GROSSET & DUNLAP are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

 

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005015184

eISBN : 978-1-101-10002-8

W
iglaf raced up the East Tower stairs of Dragon Slayers' Academy. He zoomed down the hallway. He was giving up his lunch hour to go to Reporters' Round Table. He did not want to be late.

Wiglaf reached Sir Mort's classroom. He slowed down as he entered, trying to catch his breath. Sir Mort was stretched out with his armored feet up on his desk. Muffled snoring sounds came from behind his visor. Wiglaf tippy-toed past Sir Mort and slipped into a seat beside Angus.

“You're late, Wiglaf,” said Erica. She stood in front of Sir Mort's desk, holding a quill and a clipboard.

“Sorry,” said Wiglaf. “Frypot kept us late in Scrubbing Class.”

“All right, reporters,” said Erica. “Who has story ideas for the
DSA News
?”

“I want to write a story about my home-town, Toenail,” said Torblad.

“This is a school paper, Torblad,” said Erica. “We do school stories. Other ideas?”

Gwen raised her hand. “I want to write the ‘Get to Know Me!' piece—on
me
,” she said. “I could tell
DSA News
readers how it feels to be a very rich, very talented, and very fashionable princess.”

“Fine,” said Erica. “But keep it to one hundred words.”

“So few?” cried Gwen. “But I—”

Erica cut her off. “More ideas?”

Janice raised her hand. “How about the Alchemy Convention?”

Erica tapped her quill thoughtfully on her cheek. “Go on,” she said. “What's your angle?”

“How Mordred rented out our school for the convention,” said Janice. “And how none of the alchemists made any gold.”

“Only a huge mess,” muttered Angus.

“That is why Scrubbing Class got out late,” added Wiglaf. “We were scraping ashes off everything metal in the whole castle.”

“It's your story, Janice,” said Erica.

Now Wiglaf spoke up. “I want to write about the animals at DSA,” he said. “And how we can take better care of them.”

“You mean a story on your pig?” asked Erica.

“More about the animals no one thinks of,” said Wiglaf. “There are a great many rats and spiders at DSA, and—”

“BOR-ring!” cried Erica. “I want real news! Not rats and spiders!”

Erica's shouting woke Sir Mort.

“Where's the dragon?” he cried, clattering to his feet. “I'll slay that fire-breather, or my name isn't Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.”

“You must be dreaming, sir,” said Erica. “Your name
isn't
Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.”

“No?” said Sir Mort. “Pity.”

“Your name is Sir Mort du Mort,” Erica went on. “You are the faculty adviser for the school paper,
DSA News
.”

“Well, then,” said Sir Mort. “Carry on.” He sank back into his seat. He put his helmeted head down on his desk. Soon he was snoring again.

“Who wants to write a story about our headmaster?” Erica asked her reporters. “You could find out what it's like to run a school. What does Mordred do all day?” She looked around the room. “Who wants it? Angus?”

“I wouldn't touch that story with a ten-foot pole,” said Angus.

“I'll put it on the front page,” coaxed Erica.

Angus shook his head.

“How about you, Wiggie?” asked Erica.

“I want to write about animals,” said Wiglaf.

“Why not write it yourself, Erica?”

Erica scowled. “I am the editor-in-chief of this paper,” she said. “I don't write stories. I assign them.” Her face brightened. “And that's what I'm going to do. Angus! Wiglaf! I hereby assign you the story on Mordred! You'll do it together.”

“No!” said Angus.

“I'm the boss,” said Erica. “And I say yes.”

Wiglaf knew it was no use arguing. Erica had made up her mind.

“Follow Mordred everywhere,” Erica told them. “Don't let him out of your sight. Ask questions. Find out how a former mud-wrestling champ became headmaster of DSA. Write a big, exciting story!”

Wiglaf liked writing stories. He liked seeing his words in the
DSA News
. Maybe if he did an excellent job on the Mordred story, Erica would let him write his animal story for the next issue.

Five minutes later Wiglaf and Angus were on their way to the headmaster's office. Both lads carried clipboards, quills, and ink pots.

“Uncle Mordred won't let me interview him,” complained Angus.

“Why not?” asked Wiglaf.

“If he sees me, he'll make me polish his boots,” said Angus. “Or clean the grease spots off his tunic.” He sighed. “Uncle Mordred doesn't like me much.”

“But you are his nephew,” said Wiglaf.

“That's the problem,” said Angus. “My mother made Uncle Mordred take me.”

They walked by the two suits of armor that stood on either side of the headmaster's office door.

Angus knocked on the door. “Maybe I'm not cut out to be a dragon slayer,” he said as he waited. “But I would like to do a bold, brave deed and become a hero. Then Uncle Mordred would see that I belong here.”

Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble floor behind them.

“It's Uncle Mordred!” cried Angus. “Quick! Hide!”

Forgetting all about bold deeds, Angus lunged for the armor to the right of the door. He lifted off its top half and jumped into the boots and leg plates. He lowered the top half of the armor onto his own top half.

“Jump into the other suit!” he called to Wiglaf from inside the armor. “Hurry!”

Wiglaf rushed to the armor. He put it on, just as Angus had done. He tried to hold very still.

The footsteps grew louder. Then they stopped. Wiglaf heard a key turn in a lock. The office door opened and slammed shut. Wiglaf heard muffled bumps. Then some clicks. And then—CREEEAK!

Soon he heard Mordred's voice saying, “Sixty-two.”

CLINK!

“Sixty-three.”

CLINK!

Wiglaf bet he knew what those sounds meant. Mordred had opened his safe. Now he was counting his gold.

“Sixty-four,” Mordred said.

CLINK!

“Sixty-five.”

CLINK!

How could he write a big, exciting story about Mordred counting his gold? Boring! An animal story would be much more thrilling.

Quick footsteps sounded from the entryway. Someone was running. Wiglaf heard shouting. He knew that voice. It was Mordred's scout, Yorick.

Yorick wore different disguises for different scouting jobs. Wiglaf peeked out from the armor. Today Yorick wore a brown furry suit with a fluffy tail. Was he supposed to be a squirrel? Or a strange sort of bear?

“My lord!” cried Yorick. “My lord!” He banged on Mordred's door.

“Hold your horses, man!” cried Mordred from inside the office.

Wiglaf heard coins clinking. A minute later, he heard the door open.

“What is it, Yorick?” Mordred boomed.

“This has your name on it, my lord,” said Yorick. “I found it on the drawbridge, weighted down by a rock.”

Wiglaf heard parchment rustling. Then silence.

“Blazing King Ken's britches!” shouted Mordred. “There's been a kidnapping!”

Wiglaf pressed his ear to the armor, hoping to hear more.

“Oh, no, Yorick!” cried Mordred. “A ransom note! From kidnappers! They want me to cough up my very own gold!” Then he burst into tears.

A
kidnapping! Wiglaf's heart began to thump. Who could have been kidnapped? A DSA student? Why else would Yorick bring the ransom note to Mordred? Now
this
was a news story!

Wiglaf strained to hear what was going on inside the headmaster's office.

Mordred spoke again, “Have you shown this note to anyone else, Yorick?”

“Oh, no, my lord,” Yorick answered.

“Good!” said Mordred. “Say nothing of it. This will be our little secret, Yorick. Yours and mine. I shall reward you handsomely for your silence.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord!” cried Yorick happily.

“Come with me to the kitchen,” said Mordred.