Authors: Kate McMullan

The New Kid at School (4 page)

BOOK: The New Kid at School

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Unfortunately, the old stone floors of the castle were far smoother than the ground outside a dragon’s cave. Sir Mort’s boot kept sliding and sliding...and sliding. Until the old knight clanked to the floor in a perfect split. His visor slammed down over his face.

“Hoist me up, lads!” Sir Mort cried in a muffled voice.

Eric and two other boys gripped their teacher under the arms and pulled him up.

“Ah, that’s better.” Sir Mort pushed his visor back up. “Slippery devils, these boots. Reminds me of the time I stalked the dragon Fiffnir. Have I shown you the wound Fiffnir gave me? Nasty wound it is, too.”

Sir Mort bent down. He began struggling to pull off the left boot of his armor.

In the distance a bell rang.

Angus spoke up. “Sir Mort, class is over.”

“Devilish tight, this boot,” Sir Mort grumbled.

“Sir, we must go to Slaying Class now,” Angus continued. “Coach Plungett gets vexed if we are late.”

“Go then, lads. Go!” Sir Mort said. “My wound will wait. Got it the year of the grasshopper plague. No, the year before. Couldn’t have walked to Constantinople. Not with this wound. No, it must have been...”

Quietly, Wiglaf followed Angus and Eric and the other future dragon slayers down the spiral staircase. He was amazed at how much he had learned of dragon stalking in one short morning!

“Step it up, lads!” Coach Plungett called as Class I ran out into the castle yard. The large man’s long brown pageboy-style hair blew gently in the breeze. “Ten laps around the castle,” he ordered. “Can’t kill a dragon if you’re not in shape!”

By lap three, Eric was way ahead of the others. Wiglaf was way behind. He began to worry that slopping pigs and washing dishes had not prepared him well for dragon slaying.

But after the laps, the coach ordered the boys to take a deep breath and hold it for the count of fifty.

“If a dragon spews out poison,” he told them, “the longer you can hold your breath, the better. Ready? And! One...two...three....”

Wiglaf smiled as he held his breath. Living in the smelly hovel with his unwashed family had given him plenty of practice at this skill! He alone made it to the count of fifty.

“Good work!” Coach Plungett told him. “Now before we start slaying, why don’t you give the DSA cheer for our new boy? Belt it out now, boys!”

At once, the whole class began shouting at the top of their lungs:

“Rooty-toot-ho! Rooty-toot-hey!
We are the boys from DSA!
We slay dragons, yes we do!
Big ones! Bony ones! Fat ones, too!
We slay dragons, young and old!
We slay dragons, grab their gold!
Yea! Yea! For good old DSA-Hey!”

“Hey!” Coach clapped at the end of the cheer. “All right now, line up in front of Old Blodgett. Quickly, lads. Go on!”

Wiglaf and the others lined up in front of a large dragon. It wasn’t a real dragon, of course. Old Blodgett was only a wooden one covered with cloth and stuffed with straw.

“Slaying is the most important class here at DSA,” Coach told the boys. “You can find a dragon. You can stalk a dragon. But if you cannot slay a dragon, you cannot get a hoard.

“Today we shall practice Slaying Method Number Seven, the Throat Thrust. Aim here.” Coach Plungett pointed the tip of his sword just under Old Blodgett’s chin where a target had been painted. “Not many scales in that spot. Watch me now!”

Coach Plungett faced the false dragon. He drew his weapon, galloped a few steps, and with a toss of his brown pageboy, thrust his sword deep into the dragon’s neck.

Wiglaf cringed. He knew that no blood would spill from this dragon. Still his stomach did flip-flops.

Wiglaf watched with growing dread as each boy took a turn stabbing the practice dragon. When his turn came, he drew Surekill, galloped toward the dragon, and stopped.

“Go on, boy!” Coach Plungett urged him.

Wiglaf backed up. He gripped Surekill more tightly. He stared at the target on the dragon’s throat. He galloped forward again ...and stopped.

“Blazing King Ken’s britches!” Coach cried. “Aim here!” He pointed at the target.

Wiglaf backed up once more. He swallowed. If he could not plunge his sword into this dummy dragon, what hope did he have of ever slaying a
real
one? Wiglaf took a step toward Old Blodgett. Then another. And another.

“I cannot watch!” Coach Plungett moaned. He turned away in disgust.

But Wiglaf kept on. Faster and faster he came. At the last minute, he closed his eyes. “Haiii-yah!” He thrust Surekill up toward the dragon’s chin.

But somehow Wiglaf missed. He went flying past the practice dragon and landed on a bale of straw. His eyes popped open. Around him, boys were hooting and pointing.

Wiglaf glanced at Surekill. His heart nearly stopped. He had missed the practice dragon. But he had speared some small, brown, furry creature! There it was, stuck on the end of his sword!

Why is everyone laughing,
Wiglaf wondered,
when I have so cruelly killed a ...uh...?

“I’ll take that!” growled the coach.

Wiglaf looked up to see a very bald Coach Plungett snatch the hairy thing from the end of Surekill and angrily set it on his head.

Only then did Wiglaf understand what creature he had murdered. Coach Plungett’s own brown pageboy wig!

Chapter 6

Wiglaf picked at his lunch of boiled eel on a bun. Coach Plungett was sure to give him an F in slaying now. He had messed up royally—and on his very first day of school.

“Come on, Wiglaf. Eat up!” Angus told him. “You do
not
want to be late for Mordred’s class.”

Mordred!
Wiglaf shuddered.
What would the headmaster do to a new boy who had nearly slayed the slaying coach?

With dark thoughts, Wiglaf followed Angus to a stone-walled classroom. As the boys sat down on a rickety bench, a huge man in a red cloak strode through the door. Thick black hair sprouted from his head. His violet eyes bulged like overripe plums.

“Atten-
tion!
” Mordred the Marvelous called.

The students leaped to their feet. Wiglaf did, too.

“At ease!” Mordred commanded.

The boys sat down.

“Let us review,” the headmaster said. “Why are you here at Dragon Slayers’ Academy?”

“To learn to slay evil dragons!” Eric called out at once. “To make the world safe for little children! To save villagers from—”

“Yes, yes,” Mordred interrupted, holding up a hand heavy with gold rings. “That is all well and good. But what about yesterday’s lesson ? What did I say? Anyone? Baldrick?”

A small freckle-faced boy with a runny nose stood up. “We are here to learn how to get a dragon’s golden hoard, sir! And bring it back to you, sir!”

“Correct!” Mordred grinned, showing a shiny gold front tooth. “To bring me gold! And”—he coughed—“to take some...a teeny bit...maybe...home to your”—he coughed again—“parents.”

He cleared his throat. “Now, who remembers how to find a cave-dwelling dragon?”

Again, Eric was the first to answer. “Look for burned spots on shrubs and bushes!” he called. “And big footprints with three long toes!”

Mordred nodded. “And when you spot the dragon...what must you look out for?”

“Beware flames of death!” Eric shouted. “Beware a dragon’s poison spit!”

“Correct, Eric.” Mordred sighed and looked around. “Anyone
else?”

“Beware the eyes that never close!” Eric called again. “Beware the knife-sharp teeth! Beware the powerful, lashing tail!”

“Thank you, Eric,” Mordred said. “Now, what else must a dragon hunter know in order to slay such a beast?”

“How to talk to a dragon!” Eric called. “How to be brave!”

Mordred nodded. “Anything else?”

At last Eric was quiet. And so were all the other boys.

But Wiglaf had listened well to the minstrel’s dragon tales. He knew there was one thing that Eric had not mentioned. Timidly, he raised his hand.

Mordred’s bulging eyes lit on him. “Ah, the new boy! The one who scalped Coach Plungett!” The headmaster chuckled. “So, new boy, what else should a dragon hunter know?”

“A dragon’s secret weakness?” Wiglaf said meekly.

“That’s right!” Mordred’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, everybody knows
that,”
Eric complained.

“Let the new boy tell what he knows of dragon secrets, Eric,” Mordred said. “Maybe you will learn something.”

“From
him?”
Eric muttered. “Not likely.”

“Well, new boy?” Mordred said. “Pray, tell us what you know!”

“I—I know very little....” Wiglaf began.

“See?” Eric cut in. “What did I tell you?”

But the headmaster ignored him. “New boy,” he said, “know you the secret weakness of the dragon Gorzil?”

“No, sir,” Wiglaf answered. “His weakness is still a secret.”

“Too true.” Mordred sighed sadly. “But it would be useful to know it. For Gorzil is rumored to be in the Dark Forest. My scout Yorick is there now. As soon as he finds Gorzil’s cave, I shall send my best boys out to slay him. Slay him, and claim his great big golden hoard!”

These words were barely out of Mordred’s mouth when a small man burst into the classroom. Branches and leaves were tied to his tunic, as if he were trying to disguise himself as a bush.

“Yorick!” Mordred exclaimed. “Back so soon? What news from the Dark Forest?”

“My lord,” Yorick began, “Gorzil has moved to a cave outside the village of Toenail.”

“Toenail!” Torblad shrieked. “My family lives in Toenail!”

“Sit down, Torblad,” Mordred snarled. “Go on, Yorick.”

“My lord,” Yorick said, “the Toenailians have brought Gorzil all their gold. Now he swears to burn Toenail to the ground unless a son and a daughter of the village are outside his cave tomorrow. Tomorrow at dawn, in time for breakfast!”

“Oh, that’s nice of Gorzil,” Torblad said, cheering up. “Having company for breakfast.”

“You ninny!” Mordred cried. “They are to be his breakfast!” The headmaster turned back to his scout. “So! I shall send boys out to slay Gorzil this very afternoon!”

Then a look of horror crossed his face.

“Egad!” he exclaimed. “Class II and Class III just left on that blasted field trip to see the petrified dragon skeleton! That means I shall have to send Class I boys!”

“Pray, send me!” Eric cried, falling to his knees.

“Yes, yes,” Mordred said. “But remember, we have a buddy system here. I’ll need another volunteer.” He looked around the room. “Anyone but Angus. If I sent you, I’d never hear the end of it from your mother. All right, who will it be?”

No hands went up.

“Come now,” Mordred coaxed. “Gorzil is not so bad!”

Still no hands went up.