Revenge of the Dragon Lady

Table of Contents

 

 

 

—K. McM.

Text copyright © 1997, 2003 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright
©
1997, 2003 by Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Putnam Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

 

McMullan, K.H.

Revenge of the dragon lady/ by K.H. McMullan; illustrated by Bill Basso. p. cm.—(Dragon Slayers’ Academy ; 2)

Summary: After accidentally killing a dragon, Wiglaf hopes his friends at Dragon Slayers’ Academy will be able to help him prove himself a hero when he faces that dragon’s mother, Seetha, the Beast from the East.

[1. Dragons-Fiction. 2. Schools-Fiction. 3. Courage-Fiction.]

I. Basso, Bill, ill. II. Title. III. Series: McMullan, K.H.

Dragon Slayers’ Academy ; 2.

PZ7.M47879Re 1997

[Fic]-dc21

eISBN : 978-1-101-14203-5

W
iglaf sat in the cold dining hall of Dragon Slayers’ Academy. He stared at the slimy jellied eels on his plate.

“Yuck!” he said to his friend Erica. “I’m sick of having eels for breakfast!”

Erica brushed a clump of brown hair out of her eyes. “Get over it, Wiglaf,” she told him.

“I know, I know,” Wiglaf said miserably. “The castle moat is swarming with eels. And as long as our headmaster can get eels for free, he will have Frypot cook us eels for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

With her bread, Erica sopped up every last drop of dark green eel juice on her plate. She popped the bread into her mouth.

How could she stand it?
Wiglaf wondered.

“Mmmm,” Erica said. “I love it!”

Erica loved everything about DSA—including the eels. She didn’t even mind emptying the eel traps each morning. Wiglaf was pretty sure that was one of the reasons she had won the Future Dragon Slayer of the Month Medal.

Wiglaf tasted a small bite of tail. Disgusting! He pushed his plate of eels across the table.

“Here, Erica,” he said. “Have mine.”

“Shhh! It’s
Eric,
remember?” Erica looked around the dining hall to see whether anyone at the other tables had heard. “If Mordred discovers I’m a girl and kicks me out of school, it will be
your
fault!”

“Sorry,” Wiglaf said.

“You’re the only one who knows my secret,” Erica went on. “If you tell anyone, I swear, I’ll whack off your head! I’ll plunge my sword into your gut! Your blood will—”

“All right, Eric!” Wiglaf cut in quickly. “I get your meaning. »

Wiglaf knew Erica was dying to slay a dragon and become a hero. But did she have to go on and on about plunging her sword into
him?

Wiglaf wanted to be a hero, too. Heroes were brave and bold. If he were a hero, no one would tease him about being small for his age. Or about his carrot-colored hair. So Wiglaf had left home, with his pet pig, Daisy, at his side. He had come to Dragon Slayers’ Academy to learn how to kill dragons and become a hero.

There was only one small problem with his plan.

Wiglaf couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

“Wiglaf! Eric!” someone called from across the dining hall.

Wiglaf looked up. He saw Angus, the headmaster’s nephew, running toward their table.

Angus was plump and sandy-haired. He never ran when he could walk. He never walked when he could sit. So Wiglaf knew he must have important news.

“Angus!” Erica exclaimed. “What is it?”

Angus stood by the Class I table, catching his breath. “Uncle Mordred is having a tantrum,” he said.

“That’s nothing new,” Wiglaf pointed out. Mordred was always yelling at him because of what had happened with a dragon named Gorzil. Wiglaf and Erica had been sent off to kill Gorzil. And Wiglaf
had
killed him. But only by accident. He had stumbled upon Gorzil’s secret weakness—bad jokes. And four bad jokes later, Gorzil was history. But Mordred didn’t yell about how he had killed the dragon. He yelled about how Wiglaf had let some greedy villagers take all of Gorzil’s gold.

“But this is a major tantrum,” Angus was saying. “Mordred just heard about a boy from Dragon Exterminators’ Prep. He killed a dragon and brought his headmaster all the dragon’s gold. Uncle Mordred is screaming and yelling that one of us had better slay a dragon soon. One of us must bring him some gold, or—”

“Angus!” Wiglaf cried. “Duck!”

Angus ducked. A fat jellied eel flew over his head. It landed in Erica’s lap.

Erica leaped to her feet. “Hey! Who threw that?” she called.

“Me!” yelled a boy from the Class II table. “What are you going to do about it?”

“You will see!” Erica yelled back. The Future Dragon Slayer of the Month loved a good food fight as much as any other DSA student. She snatched up an eel from Wiglaf’s plate. She threw it. “Bull’s-eye!” she yelled as it hit its mark.

At once the air was thick with flying eels.

Wiglaf grinned. Moments like this were the best part of being at Dragon Slayers’ Academy! He grabbed an eel. He threw it across the room. Then he joined in the chant that boys at the Class III table had started: “No more eel! No more eel!”

Soon the dining hall was filled with the sound of feet stomping and voices chanting: “No more eel! No more eel!”

Wiglaf picked up the last eel from his plate. He eyed the life-sized bust of Mordred that sat on a post by the door. The headmaster’s thick hair, his big popping eyes, and his wide smile had been carved into stone.

Wiglaf took aim. “This one is for you, Mordred!” he yelled. Then he hurled his eel at the stone head.

But at that very moment, the flesh-and-blood headmaster walked through the dining hall door.

Wiglaf stared in horror as his eel hit the real Mordred’s face with a mighty splat!

T
he eel stuck to Mordred’s forehead. Green eel juice dripped into his angry violet eyes. It trickled down his cheeks to his beard.

“You!” Mordred roared at Wiglaf. “I should have known!” He ripped the flattened fish from his forehead. He threw it over his shoulder.

“You!” Mordred thundered. He glared at Wiglaf. “The only DSA pupil ever to slay a dragon! But did you bring me Gorzil’s gold? You did NOT!”

“I-I tried to, sir,” Wiglaf said. “But the villagers ran into Gorzil’s cave, and—”

“Excuses! Excuses!” Mordred shouted. “And you never paid your tuition! You still owe me seven pennies!”

“That is true,” Wiglaf began. “But you see, sir, my family has no money. And my father wanted me to sell my pig. But I—”

“And now you go and hit me with an eel!” Mordred cut in. “As soon as you pay your seven pennies, I shall kick you out of school!”

Mordred took a big red handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the last of the eel juice from his face.

“But, now,” he continued, “it’s detention for one and all!” He pointed a fat gold-ringed finger toward the stairs. “To the dungeon! March!”

The DSA students lined up. They marched down three flights of stone steps. One by one, the pupils filed into the cold, damp dungeon.

When everyone was inside, Mordred slammed the door. He lit a pair of torches on the wall.

“Angus! Come here!” the headmaster barked. “The rest of you, sit!”

Angus stepped forward. Wiglaf and the rest of the students sat down on the hard floor.

Mordred gave Angus a jar of quills and several bottles of ink. “Pass these around,” he ordered. “Then give out the parchment.”

Angus obeyed in silence.

At last everyone had writing supplies.

“Write down all one hundred rules for future dragon slayers,” Mordred said. “Neatly, now. No cross-outs or ink blots allowed.”

Erica’s hand shot up. “Is there a prize for whoever finishes first?” she asked.

“No, Eric. This is a punishment.” Mordred frowned at the hourglass he wore strapped to his wrist. “You have two hours. Begin!”

Two hours! Wiglaf’s heart sank as he dipped his quill into an ink bottle. He wrote:

Five down, Wiglaf thought. Only ninety-five to go. He glanced over at Erica’s paper. How had she written eighteen rules already?

Swords!
thought Wiglaf.
That’s all anybody at DSA cares about.
He had killed a dragon! So what if he hadn’t used his sword. He had done it with jokes. But shouldn’t that count for something? It didn’t seem to. Nobody seemed to think slaying a dragon with jokes was one bit heroic. Wiglaf sighed. How was he ever going to become a hero?

Wiglaf had just dipped his quill into the ink again when he heard a fluttering noise. He and several others looked up. At the barred window of the dungeon they saw the face of a giant bird!

Mordred looked up, too.

“Zounds!” he yelped. “A bird of evil omen has come to devour us all!”

“My lord!” the bird called. “It is I, your scout, Yorick.” He reached out a wing tip and pulled off his big yellow beak. “See?”

“Yorick!” Mordred cried. “Quick! Come down here! Bring me your news!”

A moment later, Yorick waddled into the dungeon. He was covered from head to toe with grimy gray feathers.

“My lord,” Yorick said, “I have been spying for you on Buzzard’s Peak.”

“Ah!” Mordred nodded. “So that explains your buzzard disguise.”

Wiglaf thought Yorick looked like a huge pigeon. But he kept his thought to himself.

“My lord,” Yorick went on, “a black cloud is blowing in from the east.”