Never Trust a Troll! (5 page)

“I welcome thee to DSA, Grock,” said Brother Dave. “I hopest thou shalt be very happy here.”

Suddenly the troll’s eyes grew wide. He yelped and scurried behind a bookcase.

“What ails thee, lad?” called Brother Dave.

“Dragon!” shouted Grock. “Green dragon!”

“Is it Worm?” Wiglaf ran to the window slit, hoping to see the young dragon he and Angus had raised from piplinghood. But the sky was empty. “What dragon, Grock?” said Wiglaf. “You’re lying again, aren’t you?”

“On floor,” Grock called from behind the bookcase.

“That’s only a pillow, Grock,” Wiglaf said. “Take a look.”

Grock peeked out from behind the bookcase. He looked warily at the large green dragon-shaped pillow that Brother Dave had made. Its long, forked pink tongue was made of felt. It had white felt claws and fangs, too.

Grock came out from his hiding place. But he was trembling a little.

Wiglaf caught a whiff of a strong, spicy odor. It tickled his nose and he sneezed.

“Bless thee, lad,” said Brother Dave.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Wiglaf said.

“Me? Afraid? Guh-huh, guh-huh!” laughed Grock. “I knew it was a faker dragon. I was fooling.”

But Wiglaf wondered: Underneath his tough troll hide, was Grock really a scaredy-troll?

“Browseth around, Grock,” Brother Dave said, “Wiglaf and I must catcheth up for a moment.”

As the troll wandered off, Brother Dave opened his desk drawer and took out a book.

“This once belongeth to my great-great grandfather,” said Brother Dave. “He passeth it down to my great-grandfather, who passeth it down to my grandfather, who passeth it down to my father, who passeth it down to me. I would very much like to giveth it to thee, Wiglaf.”

Wiglaf read the title:
A Knight and His Dragon.

“’Tis a story about a knight who findeth a dragon egg, lad,” said Brother Dave. “The knight and his dragon haveth many a fine adventure.”

“Oh, thank you, Brother Dave!” said Wiglaf.

“Thou art welcome, lad,” said Brother Dave, handing over the book. “Worm cameth to see me last week,” he added.

“How is he?” asked Wiglaf, eager for any news of his beloved dragon.

“Oh, how he hast grown!” said Brother Dave. “Thou wouldst not know—” He stopped and listened. “Dost thou hearest an odd crunching sound?”

Wiglaf listened. “I hear something,” he said. “Grock!” he cried and turned to Brother Dave. “I fear that troll is up to no good. Grock!” he called. “Grock!”

Grock did not answer.

Now Brother Dave put a finger to his lips.

The two of them listened. There was the crunching again.

They tiptoed toward the back of the library. There, between two bookshelves, was the troll.

Brother Dave gasped. “Oh, Grock! What hast thou done?”

“Grock!” cried Wiglaf. “No!”

Grock smiled up at them from where he sat on the floor, surrounded by a huge pile of torn-up books.

“Yah, Brother!” said Grock. “Ye have really good books up here!” He took a bite out of the book he was holding and chewed loudly.

“Please stoppeth!” cried Brother Dave. “Taketh not another bite!”

“One more.” Grock took another bite. “Yummers!”

“Books are for reading!” Wiglaf cried.

“Fer ye, maybe,” said Grock. “But I eats ’em.” Grock held his tummy and let out a belch.

“Goest thou from this library, Grock,” Brother Dave said sternly.

Wiglaf had never seen the little monk so upset.

“Yah, all right,” said the troll. “But can I check out some books?”

“Thou mayest not,” said Brother Dave.

Grock’s tummy rumbled loudly.

“I ate me books too fast!” he wailed. He burped again. “I need to lie down. Come on, buddy. Ye got to put me to bed.”

“Put yourself to bed, Grock,” said Wiglaf.

“No!” cried Grock. “Buddies sticks together!” His tummy rumbled again. It sounded like thunder.

Wiglaf shook his head.

Grock moaned. Then he turned and ran down the 427 steps clutching his tummy.

Wiglaf helped Brother Dave clean up the pile of half-eaten books.

“Mine fellow monks of the Little Brothers of the Peanut Brittle loveth to maketh copies,” said Brother Dave. “In ten or twelve years, we shalt havest these books on our shelves once more”.

“I’m sorry about this,” said Wiglaf.

“It art not thy fault, lad,” said Brother Dave. “Thou didst not knowest.” The little monk looked thoughtful. “If he hast not eaten it, I haveth a book that may helpeth thee with thou buddy.”

Brother Dave scurried off. When he returned, he held a copy of a small, leather-bound book:
All About Trolls.

Brother Dave opened it. “Readeth this, Wiglaf,” he said, and he handed him the book.

Wiglaf looked up from the book. “That’s what Grock smells like!” he exclaimed. “Peppermint!”

“Ah,” said Brother Dave. “I smelleth it, too. It art a pleasing scent.”

Wiglaf nodded, thinking that when Grock had been frightened of the dragon pillow, his scent had changed. It was not minty at all, but strong and spicy.

Wiglaf read on:

“If only I had read this book before I brought Grock up here!” said Wiglaf.

Brother Dave smiled kindly and said, “Thou never knowest what good mayest yet cometh from thine difficult Class I buddy.”

“U
p and at ‘em, lads!” called Frypot, banging two cooking pots together. “’Tis another beautiful day at Dragon Slayers’ Academy.”

Wiglaf rolled out of his cot. He was sleepy this morning. He had borrowed Erica’s mini-torch and stayed up late, reading
A Knight and His Dragon.
It was the best book he had ever read. He couldn’t wait to find out whether the knight and his dragon would defeat the evil sorcerer and his griffin.

Wiglaf tucked the book into his belt. He hoped to find a few minutes during the day to read another chapter. As he pulled on his tunic, he smelled peppermint. So when his head poked out of the neck hole, he was not surprised to see the troll. He noticed that Grock’s own tunic was spotted with stains from every meal he’d gobbled down at DSA.

“Breakfast time, buddy,” said Grock. He had a pack slung over his shoulder this morning.

“Ready,” Wiglaf said.

The two set off for the dining hall. On the way, Aggie, Dudwin, Bilge, and Maggot joined them. “Why aren’t you with your Class II buddies?” Wiglaf asked them.

“They’re boring,” said Bilge.

“Yeah,” said Maggot.

“We’d rather be with you and Grock, Wiggie,” said Dudwin.

“Mostly Grock,” said Aggie. “He is so cool!”

“Yah,” said Grock.

“What’ll it be, lads and lass?” Frypot asked when they stepped up in the breakfast line. “Eel-bean burritos? Or eel waffles with moat syrup?”

“Both!” cried Grock, holding out his plate.

“Both!” said the Class I copycats, holding out their plates.

Wiglaf looked at the pile of slimy burritos. And at the dark brown waffles swimming in what had to be mud.

“Waffle,” he said, feeling sick as he said it. Grock led the way to a table. Aggie and Dudwin sprang into the seats next to the troll.

“No fair,” said Bilge. “You guys sat next to Grock at supper.”

The troll picked up the burrito and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. Juice leaked out and ran down his chin as he chewed.

Dudwin and the other Class I copycats shoved their whole burritos into their mouths. Maggot nearly choked on his and had to burp it up. Disgusting!

Wiglaf sighed. It was bad enough having one buddy. Now he suddenly had five! This was going to be a long week.

“So, buddy,” Grock said two days later at lunch, his mouth stuffed with Frypot’s eel potpie, “what next?”

“Yeah,” said Maggot. “What’s next?”

“Dragon Science class,” said Wiglaf. “With Professor Pluck.”

“Science, pooey!” said Grock. “I wants to slay a dragon. I wants to slay Bubbles!”

“Me too!” said Bilge. “I want to slay lots of dragons!”

“Yeah,” said Maggot. “Me too.”

“Uh, me three,” said Dudwin.

“I’m in, too,” said Aggie. “I guess.”

“Right now, we have to go to class,” said Wiglaf. “And we have to get there early to get seats in the back. Professor Pluck is a spitter. If you sit up front, you get spat upon.”

“Eww!” said Aggie.

But Grock grinned. “I’d like to see that, wouldn’t I?”

Grock pulled his roach out of his pocket and put him on the table. “Go on, Crawler,” he said.

The roach dashed over to Wiglaf’s plate and ran across his eel potpie.

“Ugh!” said Wiglaf, pushing his plate away.

“Oh, ye don’t want that?” said Grock, pocketing his roach. He grabbed the plate and gobbled up the potpie. He licked the plate. Then he ate the plate.

His Class I posse cracked up.

When lunch finally ended, Wiglaf led the way to the North Tower.

“
P
lease come in,
p
u
p
ils!” the professor said, spewing spit each time he said the letter
P
. “
P
ut down your
p
acks,
p
ick u
p
a
p
iece of
p
archment, and
p
ick a
p
lace to
p
erch.”

Wiglaf picked up a parchment. On it were two drawings of a water dragon. A drawing titled “Before Drinking” showed the dragon with a small stomach. A drawing titled “After Drinking” showed a dragon with its stomach expanded into an enormous round ball.

Wiglaf looked up from the parchment. “Let’s take those two seats in the last row, Grock,” he said.

When the troll did not answer, Wiglaf turned. The troll had been right beside him a second ago. Now where was he?

“
P
laces
p
lease,
p
u
p
ils!” spewed Professor Pluck. “I am a punctual professor. I prefer to start
p
rom
p
tly.”

Wiglaf sniffed. He could smell the pepper-minty troll. But he didn’t see him anywhere.

“Places!” said Professor Pluck.

Wiglaf hurried to the back of the room. He was about to sit down when an unseen force picked him up.

“Yaaaah!” cried Wiglaf as the force rushed him to the front of the room and plunked him down in a front-row seat.

“A
p
u
p
il up front,” sputtered Professor Pluck, beaming at Wiglaf. “Perfect! Now, pay attention,
p
u
p
ils! Most dragons s
p
ew fire. Today I will s
p
eak about a peculiar type that spews water.”

Professor Pluck was spewing water himself. Sprays of spit hit Wiglaf’s face. Yuck! He tried to get up, but something held him down.

“
P
ay s
p
ecial attention to the to
p
of your
p
archment,” said Professor Pluck. “This shows a
p
icture of a small water dragon la
pp
ing up
p
ounds and
p
ounds of water. The
p
ouch inside its
p
aunch ex
p
ands with water until it is
p
erfectly huge. Then it s
p
rays the water out at stu
p
endous force.”