The New Kid at School (3 page)

“Uh...thank you,” Wiglaf said, taking the weapon and tucking it into his belt. He supposed a rusty, dented sword was better than no sword at all.

Zelnoc glanced at Daisy. “What about the pig?” he asked. “Does she have a wish?”

“If only she could talk, she might tell you,” Wiglaf answered.

“Talk?” Zelnoc’s eyes lit up. “I have just the thing! My speech spell!”

The wizard pushed up his sleeves, stretched his hands toward Daisy, and began to chant: “Oink-a-la, doink-a-la, fee fi fig! This pig shall be a talking pig!”

Daisy blinked, and very softly she said, “Iglaf-Way?”

“She speaks!” Wiglaf cried. “Yet in what strange tongue?”

“Maybe Greek?” the wizard guessed.

“E-may, alking-tay!” Daisy burbled happily.

“I know!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “‘Tis Pig Latin!”

“Excuse me?” Zelnoc said.

“Pig Latin,” Wiglaf said. “You know—where you take the first sound in a word and put it at the end. Then you add the ‘ay’ sound. Pig becomes ’ig-pay.‘ Do you see?”

“Pig Latin, my foot!” Zelnoc moaned. “My spell went wrong!”

“O-nay idding-kay!” Daisy scoffed.

“Stop, pig!” Zelnoc cried. “That crazy language makes my beard twitch.” He shuddered. “I’m in worse shape than I thought. And the Wizards’ Convention is only two weeks away.”

Zelnoc turned and began gliding back to the center of the bog.

“Good-bye, Waglap!” he called. “Good luck with the dragons!”

“Good-bye!” Wiglaf called back.

“O-say ong-lay!” Daisy squealed.

Then, with a loud
slurp,
the quicksand swallowed up the wizard, this time hat and all.

Wiglaf checked his map by the light of the full moon. Yes, this had to be the place—Dragon Slayers’ Academy.

“In truth, this is not what I expected,” Wiglaf muttered.

“Uck-yay,” Daisy agreed.

Wiglaf and Daisy stood at the edge of a moat filled with greenish, foul-smelling water. It reminded Wiglaf, in many ways, of Molwena’s cabbage soup.

A rickety drawbridge led over the water to a gatehouse set in the middle of the broken-down castle wall. A tattered blue banner waved above the door. Bold letters on it spelled out DSA.

Wiglaf drew a deep breath and started across the drawbridge. Daisy trotted at his side.

Wiglaf pulled a chain by the gatehouse door. A bell sounded from deep within.

After a time, the door cracked open. A short man with big eyes stared out at the travelers. He held a torch in one hand.

“Yes?” he said.

“I am Wiglaf, sir,” Wiglaf offered. “I am here to study.”

“Welcome to DSA!” the man said, opening the door. Wiglaf saw that he wore an apron. “Odd time to arrive, midnight,” the man went on. “And school started two weeks ago. But no matter. First things first.” He held out his hand. “Seven pennies, please.”

“Alas,” Wiglaf sighed. “I have no pennies.”

The door began to close.

“Wait, sir!” he called. “I—I have half a cabbage dumpling!”

The door banged shut.

“I am a willing worker!” Wiglaf added. “I wash dishes and—”

The door opened a few inches. The man stuck his head out.

“You are skilled at washing dishes?” he asked.

Wiglaf nodded. “Very skilled.”

“Well, that suits me better than seven pennies any day.” The man opened wide the door. “Come in, come in. I am Frypot, school cook. And former dishwasher.”

“Oh, I thank you, kind sir!” Wiglaf exclaimed.

“But say not a word of this to Headmaster Mordred,” Frypot warned. “He will put the thumbscrews to me if he finds out.”

“Not a word, sir,” Wiglaf promised. Then he and Daisy started through the door.

“Hold up now!” Frypot cried. “No pigs allowed!”

“But, sir,” Wiglaf began. “This is no ordinary pig! Just listen. Daisy, say hello to the kind man.”

“Ello-hay, Ypot-Fray!” Daisy said.

“Zounds!” Frypot exclaimed. “A pig that speaks Pig Latin!”

Frypot knelt down next to Daisy.

“Ello-hay, iggy-pay,” he said slowly and loudly. “Oh, I shall make you a comfy pallet in the henhouse! Yes, just as soon as I sign in our new dishwasher—er, I mean student.”

Then Frypot lit the way through the gatehouse, across the castle yard, and up a stone stairway into the crumbling castle.

Just inside the door, Frypot stuck his torch into a holder on the wall. Then he sat down at a desk and opened a thick book.

“Full name?” he asked.

“Wiglaf of Pinwick.”

“Age?”

“This shall be my twelfth summer.”

“Skills?”

“Washing dishes,” began Wiglaf, “slopping pigs, raking dung—”

“I meant any skills that might be useful in dragon slaying,” Frypot said.

Wiglaf thought for a moment. “Nothing comes to mind,” he answered.

“Class I, then.” Frypot shut the book. He opened a cupboard and took out a blue tunic and a helmet. White letters on the tunic spelled out DSA. He gave them to Wiglaf. “Your uniform,” he said.

“The kitchen’s that way,” Frypot added, handing Wiglaf the torch. “You can start on the dishes while I settle your pig.”

Then the cook led Daisy toward the door. “Ome-cay, iggy-pay,” he said, “and tell me how you came by your enchantment. I never cook bacon, you know. Well, hardly ever....”

“What a poor sword!” Wiglaf heard someone exclaim.

He half-opened one eye. He had not had much sleep. Frypot had not told him how very, very many dirty dishes there would be.

Now Wiglaf saw two boys in DSA tunics standing at the foot of his cot. One was sandy haired and plump. The other had straight brown hair and a serious face. He was holding Surekill.

“Have you ever drawn this sword in battle?” the boy asked.

“No,” Wiglaf answered.

“Have you sliced off anyone’s head with it?”

“Of course not!” Wiglaf exclaimed.

“And I’ll wager you have never killed a dragon with it, either.”

“No,” Wiglaf admitted. “But the sword is called Surekill,” he added. “So perhaps I shall. I am called Wiglaf.”

“I am Eric.” The boy tossed Surekill back onto Wiglaf’s cot. “I sleep there.” He pointed to the far side of the room.

Wiglaf turned to see one of many lumpy cots just like his own. On the wall above it hung a certificate which read: SIR LANCELOT FAN CLUB. Next to that hung a tapestry. It showed a knight plunging a sword into a dragon. Blood gushed from the dragon’s side.
Yuck!
thought Wiglaf.

“I have not yet killed a dragon,” Eric was saying. “But soon I shall. Not for the gold, but to rid the world of evil! I want—”

“Pray, save it, Eric,” the plump boy cut in. “Or we shall miss breakfast.” He turned to Wiglaf, adding, “Don’t worry. We are not all so eager as Eric.”

Wiglaf put on his DSA tunic and helmet, and followed his roommates to a huge dining hall.

Boys of all sizes sat at long wooden tables labeled “Class I,” “Class II,” and “Class III.” A big boy was tossing slices of burnt toast through the air. Other boys punched and poked and pinched each other for the honor of catching them.

The sight made Wiglaf feel a little home-sick.

Wiglaf got in line and picked up his tray.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked Eric.

“Fried eel on toast,” Eric replied as he took a heaping plateful.

“
Eel
?” Wiglaf cried.

Eric nodded. “Mordred says eating eel is part of our training,” he explained. “Dragon hunters must learn to live on what can be found near a dragon’s lair.”

The boys carried their trays to the Class I table. Then Wiglaf watched as Eric scooped up a spoonful of greasy eel and eagerly stuffed it into his mouth.

“Ugh!” Wiglaf groaned. “How do dragon hunters do it?”

The plump boy leaned over toward him. “They don‘t,” he whispered. “Eels live in the castle moat, so they do not cost Mordred a cent. That is the real reason we are served eel so often.”

“How often?” Wiglaf asked in dismay.

“Too often,” the boy replied. “By the way, I am Angus.”

Wiglaf stared in awe. “Angus the Avenger?”

“Oh, you saw the notice.” Angus smiled shyly. “Mordred only made me sound fierce to attract fierce pupils to his school.”

“Then...you never killed a nest of dragon young?” Wiglaf asked.

“Not exactly,” Angus admitted. “I stumbled over an old dragon nest in the forest once and squashed some rotten eggs. Whew! Did they ever stink!” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “It took weeks to get the slimy goo off my boots.”

“Then Torblad the Terrible and Baldrick the Bold...?” Wiglaf began.

Angus shook his head. “I am afraid my Uncle Mordred sometimes stretches the truth.”

“The headmaster is your uncle?” Wiglaf exclaimed. “Imagine! So has anybody here ever killed a dragon?”

“Not yet,” Eric piped up. “But soon someone shall—and that someone shall be me!”

Clang! Clang!
A bell sounded and Eric slurped up the tail of his eel.

“Finish up,” Angus advised Wiglaf. “Stalking a Fire-Breather Class begins in five minutes. And it is way over in the East Tower.”

Wiglaf stared at his fried eel on toast—now cold and gray. Then he left it on his plate and hurried after Angus and Eric.

Wiglaf, Eric, and Angus rushed along the castle hallways until they came to a spiraling stone staircase. They ran up the steps, two at a time. When they reached the top of the East Tower, they were panting for breath.

Several boys stood at a window, pulling on a rope. Angus and Eric joined them.

Wiglaf, too, began to pull. “What are we raising?” he asked. “It is quite heavy.”

“‘Tis Sir Mort,” Angus replied. “Our teacher. He has a hard time walking up stairs.”

In a moment, Wiglaf saw why. A helmeted head appeared at the window. The boys reached out to pull their teacher in. And Sir Mort crashed to the classroom floor—wear—ing a full suit of armor.

The boys helped him to his feet.

“Stalking a fire-breather is no easy matter, lads,” the old knight began lecturing as he lurched and clattered to the front of the room. “Dragons can hear you coming from miles away. Especially if you have on armor. Clanks something awful.”

“Sir?” Eric called. “What about a dragon’s sense of smell?”

“Oh, they smell all right.” Sir Mort nodded thoughtfully. “Like old cheese, most of them. But I slew a dragon once that smelled exactly like my red wool socks when I wear ‘em too long and the mold sets in.”

Eric tried again. “I meant, can a dragon smell a dragon hunter?”

“Ah! Good question!” Sir Mort exclaimed. “That’s how you learn, lads! By asking questions!” He looked around the room. “Are there any more questions?”

A tall, scared-looking boy raised his hand. “How close dare we stalk a dragon without danger?” he asked in a shaky voice.

“That,” Angus whispered to Wiglaf, “is Torblad the Terrible.”

“How close!” Sir Mort exclaimed. “An excellent question. Excellent! You will go far, lad! Next question?”

Eric’s hand shot up again.
He certainly is eager,
Wiglaf thought.

“Yesterday you said we must stalk different dragons in different ways,” Eric said. “Can you give us an example?”

“Certainly I can.” Sir Mort nodded, smiling. “Easy as pie.”

Eric and the rest of the class waited. But Sir Mort only kept nodding and smiling.

“Sir?” Eric said at last. “Will you show us what you mean?”

“Good idea!” The old knight jangled to the center of the room.

“Take cave-dwelling dragons. They have excellent hearing,” Sir Mort explained. “So they must be approached on the sly. I use what I call the Slide ‘n’ Glide. I stand sideways to the cave like this.” Sir Mort turned sideways to the class. “And I slide my right foot out, like this.” Sir Mort slid his right foot out.