Never Trust a Troll! (4 page)

Erica untied the knot. “Wiggie!” she cried. “How did your boots get like this?”

“Ask my Class I buddy,” said Wiglaf.

“Guh-huh! Guh-huh! Guh-huh!” Grock laughed. “Gotcha, buddy!”

“It’s not funny, Grock,” said Erica angrily. “Wiglaf could have really hurt himself.”

“’Tis funny to me,” said Grock. “Did ye see him go down? Thud!”

“Look, Grock, no more jokes,” said Wiglaf.

“Aw right,” said the troll. “But ye should have seen the look on yer face! Guh-huh, guh-huh!”

Wiglaf suffered through the rest of lunch.

Afterward, Grock said, “So, what’s next?”

“Stalking class,” Wiglaf said. He was still mad at Grock for making him trip.

“I don’t know where my buddy went,” said Aggie. “Can I come to class with you?”

“Sure,” said Wiglaf. And he led the way through the winding hallways of Dragon Slayers’ Academy to the East Tower. He started up the spiraling stone staircase.

“Last one up is a rotten egg!” cried Grock. He pushed ahead of Wiglaf, taking the steps three at a time.

Aggie raced up after the troll. Wiglaf followed as fast as he could. When he was almost at the top of the steps, he heard horrible groaning sounds.

“What’s wrong?” Wiglaf called, running faster. He leaped up the last step, and gasped.

Grock lay face up on the floor. The troll had a terrible head wound. Bright red blood dripped from his nose and his ears.

“Gahhhhh,” Grock groaned.

“Wha-what happened?” cried Wiglaf. “Speak to me, Grock.”

“He fell,” said Aggie.

“Gahhhhh,” Grock groaned again.

All the blood made Wiglaf’s stomach churn. Still, he knelt down by the troll. He quickly untied his lucky rag from the hilt of his sword and tried to bind Grock’s wound.

Grock’s small yellow eyes popped open.

“Guh-huh! Guh-huh!” the troll laughed. “Gotcha, buddy!”

“What!” cried Wiglaf, drawing back.

The troll leaped to his feet.

“Red pepper sauce!” cried the troll. “I saved me packets. Guh-huh! Guh-huh!”

Aggie was laughing as hard as the troll.

“That’s not funny, Grock!” said Wiglaf. “I thought you were hurt!”

“Yah,” said Grock. “And, buddy? Troll blood isn’t red. Me blood is black. And boiling hot. It’ll make ye really sick to yer turn. Guh-huh, guh-huh!”

Wiglaf rose and stomped off to Dragon Stalking class. As far as he was concerned, having Grock for his buddy was no laughing matter.

A
ll the lads and lasses in Dragon Stalking class were in a line, holding on to a thick rope that hung out the window.

“One, two, three, heave ho!” Erica cried, and everyone pulled.

“What’re they doing with the rope, buddy?” asked Grock.

Wiglaf didn’t answer.

“Aw, come on, buddy,” said Grock. “Ye aren’t still mad, are ye?”

Wiglaf sighed. He was still mad. But he needed to get over it. “They’re hoisting up Sir Mort,” he told the troll. “He is very old, and cannot make it up the stairs in his suit of armor.”

Grock raced over to the rope line. “Gimme that!” he shouted, yanking the rope away from the other students.

“No!” said Angus. “It takes lots of us to pull Sir Mort up.”

“Nah,” said Grock. “I can do it meself.”

“Let Grock do it,” said Bilge. “He’s strong!”

“Yeah!” said Maggot.

“Make way for Grock!” shouted Dudwin.

Grock began to tug on the rope. Everyone else let go. Hand over hand, the troll pulled, and soon Sir Mort’s helmet appeared at the window.

For once, Sir Mort’s visor was up. When he saw Grock’s green face at the window, he cried, “Rattle my bones! Who are
you?”

“Grock’s me name,” the troll said. He stopped pulling. “What’ll ye give me to pull ye inside?”

“Grock!” cried Wiglaf. “Pull him in-now!”

Grock ignored his plea.

“What’ll ye give me, teacher?” Grock said.

“Here’s what I’ll give you,” said old Sir Mort as he dangled from the rope. “A swift kick in the backside if you don’t hoist me in—now!”

Wiglaf grinned. The aged knight was fearless! But what if Grock dropped him?

“To the rope!” cried Wiglaf.

He and Janice and Erica and Dudwin and the others rushed the troll and yanked away the rope.

“Awwww, I was only fooling, wasn’t I?” said Grock.

Wiglaf and the others gave one last pull and hoisted Sir Mort himself through the window. Then they helped the old knight to his feet and he clanked up to the front of the classroom.

“Bubbles von Troubles has been seen in the Swamp River near Toenail,” Sir Mort announced.

“Oh, woe is Toenail!” cried Torblad.

“The dragon is said to be heading south. Or... is it north?” The old knight scratched his helmet. “The thing is, he’s on his way to DSA.”

“Why do you think Bubbles is coming here, sir?” Erica asked.

“He’s after me, of course,” said Sir Mort.

“Guh-huh! Guh-huh! Guh-huh!” Grock laughed. “Why would a dragon come after a geezer like ye?”

Sir Mort drew himself up tall. “In my glory days, I slew Bubbles’s mate, Duckie McScales,” he said. “Slew isn’t quite the word. But I put her out of commission. Duckie was an enormous water dragon. She came at me with her duckbill open wide—a bill lined with razor-sharp fangs. Duckie chomped down and nearly bit off my right arm. Or...was it my left?”

“But, sir,” said Erica.

“I drew my sword,” said Sir Mort, keeping on with his story. “And I jabbed Duckie in the abdo-shrinka-dinka-puss. Right here.” He pointed to a dragon’s belly on a wall chart and made a sword-thrusting motion with his left arm.

“But, sir!” called Erica.

Sir Mort kept talking. “That dragon gave a terrible quack, and then she started shrinking. When a fire-breathing dragon dies, it turns to dragon dust. But when a water-spewing dragon dies, it shrinks. And Duckie shrank down, down, down until she was no bigger than a bath toy.” He chuckled. “I keep her in a drawer now. On a sunny day, I like to take her outside and give her a little float on the moat.”

“SIR!” shouted Erica.
“In Famous Knights and
Their
Deeds,
it says that Duckie McScales was slain by Sir Trom, the brave and bold.”

Wiglaf remembered reading that on the message tree.

Sir Mort clattered over to the chalkboard and wrote: T-R-O-M.

“Spell it backward, lads and lasses,” said the old knight.

As the students spelled, the old knight wrote: M-O-R-T.

“Trom is Mort, spelled backward?” said Wiglaf.

“Bingo!” said Sir Mort. “Once, I was Sir Trom. I slew more dragons before breakfast than most knights slay in a year.”

All the students gasped. Their ancient teacher had once been the boldest knight alive!

The old knight frowned. “Then Bubbles came after me to get revenge. No matter where I went, he found me. I went questing in the mountains. Bubbles quested after me. I sailed off to a desert island. Bubbles swam after me. That’s why I changed my name.”

“Did it stop Bubbles, sir?” asked Angus.

“Yes, indeed!” Sir Mort smiled. “Sir Trom disappeared from the face of the earth. And Bubbles couldn’t find him.”

“Then why is he coming after you now, sir?” asked Wiglaf.

The smile faded from Sir Mort’s ancient lips. “Last week, there was an article in The
Medieval
Times on the world’s oldest living knights,” he told the class. “There were drawings of Sir Roger and Sir Poodleduff and me on the front page. Bubbles must have seen the paper and recognized me. For from the very day my picture appeared, I began hearing rumors that Bubbles was getting closer and closer to Dragon Slayers’ Academy.”

Wiglaf frowned. He remembered something else he had read on the message tree flyer. Bubbles was very dangerous. Poor Sir Mort!

“Have no fear, Sir Mort!” cried Erica. “We shall slay this dragon for you!”

“What’s his secret weakness?” called Dudwin.

“Something to do with his sniffer,” answered Sir Mort. “He is said to have a very sensitive nose. More than that I know not.”

Wiglaf thought back to the flyer about Bubbles on the message tree. After “Secret weakness” all it said was “Ah-ah-ah-ah...” What did that have to do with his nose?

Just then Grock bolted out of his seat and ran to the window. “Teacher!” he called. “Is Bubbles a big blue dragon?”

“Why, yes, he is,” said Sir Mort.

“Teacher!” called Grock. “Do Bubbles have a big red horn on his forehead?”

“He does!” cried Sir Mort. “Oh, Bubbles toots a mean boogie-woogie on that horn while he gobbles up his victims.”

“Teacher!” called Grock. “Do Bubbles like to do fancy swims?”

“Yes! Bubbles is a great show-off,” said Sir Mort.

Wiglaf ran to the window. But Grock stepped in front of it, blocking his way.

“Is Bubbles out there, Grock?” said Wiglaf. “Or is this another trick?”

“See for yerself, buddy,” said Grock, stepping aside.

Wiglaf ran to the window and stuck his head out. He looked down at the castle moat.

“I don’t see any dragon,” said Wiglaf.

“Look harder, buddy!” said Grock.

Wiglaf leaned farther out the window. All of a sudden he felt a push—and he felt himself falling headfirst out the window.

“Aiiiiii!” Wiglaf cried. “Help!”

A pair of strong hands gripped his ankles, holding him upside down.

“Do ye see the dragon yet, buddy?” asked Grock.

“No!” cried Wiglaf. He was so scared, he couldn’t see anything.

Wiglaf heard Dudwin shouting, “Pull my brother up, Grock!”

“Like this?” asked Grock, shaking him up and down.

“Stooooop!” cried Wiglaf. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to die. Not like this!

“I’ll stop when ye say ye see the dragon!” said Grock.

“N-n-no!” Wiglaf cried.

Now Wiglaf heard Sir Mort’s voice: “Hoist ’im in, lad.”

“Now, Grock,” Erica growled. “Or you shall feel more than the point of my sword!”

“Owie!” yelped Grock. “Hurts!”

Suddenly Wiglaf felt himself being yanked up, up, up. He hit the cold stone floor.

“Wiggie?” cried Dudwin. “Are you all right?”

“Uuggh,” Wiglaf groaned.

Grock glared at Erica.

“Ye wounded me!” he cried. “Look.” Grock rolled up his sleeve and showed everyone the back of his arm. There was a tiny bump on it no bigger than a bug bite. It wasn’t even bleeding.

“You’ll live, Grock,” said Erica.

“Yah,” said Grock. “But it hurts!” He looked as if he were about to cry.

The end-of-class bell rang.

“Till tomorrow, lads and lasses,” Sir Mort called as his students trailed out of the classroom. “I’ll show you how I plan to slay Bubbles with the old sword-and-dagger switcheroo. Excellent way to confuse a dragon. Works every time.”

Angus steadied Wiglaf and helped him out of class. Grock stuck by Wiglaf’s other side.

“I was only trying to help ye see the dragon, buddy,” he said.

“I don’t believe that,” Wiglaf managed.

“Yah, really, I was,” said the troll. “Don’t ye trust me, buddy?”

Wiglaf had felt sorry for Grock, the lone troll at DSA. He had tried to be his friend, to be a good buddy. But did he trust the troll?

“No, I don’t trust you, Grock,” Wiglaf said.

“I don’t trust you, either,” said Angus.

Grock grinned. “Good move,” he said, and he ran off, laughing.

Wiglaf had fallen into Stinking Green Creek and nearly drowned. He had been held in a dragon’s paw and nearly squeezed to death. But as he walked down the East Tower stairs, he thought that being around Grock was even worse. The troll had made Wiglaf look like a great big fool.

“W
here to now, buddy?” Grock asked, catching up with Wiglaf on the stairs.

“I’m going to the library. You don’t have to come,” Wiglaf said hopefully.

“Yah, I do,” said Grock. “We buddies sticks together.”

“You’d better behave, Grock,” said Wiglaf. “Brother Dave, the DSA librarian, is really nice.” Grock grinned. “I love good books.”

Wiglaf led Grock to DSA’s South Tower. What sort of books did Grock love? Probably
Mean Tricks
and
More Mean Tricks.
By the time they had climbed up the 427 steps, Wiglaf was winded. But Grock ran up the steps as if they were nothing.

“Brother Dave?” called Wiglaf.

A little monk with round spectacles rushed out from behind a bookshelf.

“Wiglaf!” cried Brother Dave. “How glad I art to see thee! Thou hast grown taller over the summer!”

“Really?” asked Wiglaf happily.

Brother Dave nodded. “And who hast thou brought with thee?”

“My Class I buddy. His name is Grock,” said Wiglaf.