The New Kid at School (5 page)

“You! New boy!” he boomed. “You seem to know a fair bit about dragons. And I chanced to look at the register book at lunchtime. You never paid your seven pennies!”

“That is so,” Wiglaf began. “But—” He stopped. He had promised Frypot to say not a word about their dishwashing deal.

“No buts!” Mordred cried. “You shall go with Eric! And you shall pay your seven pennies out of Gorzil’s gold!”

“Aw, sir!” Eric cried. “Pray, pick someone else! Wiglaf has not even been here a whole day! He knows nothing of slaying!”

“You slay Gorzil, then!” Mordred shouted. “Let him pull the cart for the dragon’s hoard. Now, be off! You must reach Gorzil’s cave by dawn. What are you waiting for? Go!”

Ready, Wiglaf?“ Eric called as he hurried toward the gatehouse.

Wiglaf was bent over, trying to fix a wobbly wheel on the hoard cart. He glanced up and was nearly blinded by the glare from Eric’s slaying outfit.

Eric stood proudly before him in a gleaming silver helmet. He carried a broad silver shield. And a wide silver belt held his sword.

Wiglaf had only Surekill.

“What fine gear,” Wiglaf told Eric.

“Yes,” Eric agreed. “I sent away for it from the Sir Lancelot Fan Club catalog. Come! You shall pull the cart as Mordred said. Let us be off. My sword is itching to slay the dragon!”

Wiglaf began to slide back the great iron bolt on the gatehouse door. But a yell from Eric made him stop.

“Boar!” Eric cried. “Wild boar!”

Wiglaf turned to see Eric with his sword drawn and his shield up.

“Stand back!” Eric shouted. “I shall slay the charging beast!”

“What beast?” Wiglaf asked. Then he spotted something running toward them across the castle yard. It was Daisy!

“Eric, stop!” Wiglaf shouted. “Stop! That is my own pig, Daisy!”

Eric stopped and glumly lowered his sword. He jammed it back into its scabbard and stomped off, grumbling.

Wiglaf ran to Daisy.

“Iglaf-Way!” she squealed. “Ake-tay ee-may ith-way ou-yay!”

“I cannot, Daisy,” Wiglaf said sadly. He squatted down beside her and scratched her bristly ears. “It is too dangerous. For I am off to hunt a dragon.”

“Orzil-Gay?” Daisy’s voice trembled.

Wiglaf nodded. “Who knows? Perhaps I shall return a hero.” He tried to smile. “But if I do not”—he gulped—“if I do not return, I am sure Frypot will take good care of you. Now I—I must go. Farewell, best pig in the world!”

“Arewell-fay, Iglaf-Way!” Daisy called after him. “Ood-gay uck-lay!”

Wiglaf waved and hurried back to the gatehouse. Then he picked up the cart handle. “Let us be off,” he said to Eric.

Wiglaf and Eric followed the trail down the hill from Dragon Slayers’ Academy. Then they headed north on Huntsman’s Path.

They walked beside the Swampy River all afternoon. Strange birds cried out from the stunted trees along the way. Hairy-legged spiders dropped down on them from overhanging branches. Once an angry troll threatened them with his club. But Wiglaf was not afraid. The thought of facing Gorzil was so terrifying that nothing else bothered him.

Well, almost nothing.

“I shall slay Gorzil, no problem!” Eric announced for the two-hundredth time. “I shall plunge my sword into his throat. I shall twist it! Buckets of blood will gush from the dragon’s steaming wound! Then I shall—”

“You know,” Wiglaf broke in finally, “my sword was made for dragon slaying, too.”

“That bent-up old thing?” Eric sneered.

Wiglaf nodded. “A wizard gave it to me,” he explained. “When I say magic words, it will leap from my hand and obey.”

Eric looked doubtful. “And just what are the magic words?”

“Uh...the wizard had forgotten,” Wiglaf mumbled.

“It matters not,” Eric scoffed as they came to a fork in Huntsman’s Path. One path led to the village of Toenail. The other led into the Dark Forest. “For I shall slay this dragon with my own silvery sword. I shall cut Gorzil to ribbons! I shall—”

Suddenly, Eric stopped talking. He stared at the blackened leaves of a nearby shrub.

“Behold!” he cried. “This bush is scorched!”

Wiglaf bent down to take a closer look. “So it is,” he agreed. “Could it be from the hot breath of a dragon?”

“How could it not? And look here!” Eric pointed to the ground. “Footprints!”

Wiglaf stared at a huge three-toed print in the path in front of them. “My, but these footprints are large!” he exclaimed.

“Come!” Eric said. “They will lead us to Gorzil’s cave. Hark!” he added. “What noise is that?”

Wiglaf listened. “It sounds like someone crying.”

The sound grew louder. Then a boy and girl about Wiglaf and Eric’s age came along on the path from Toenail. Tears streamed down their cheeks.

“What ails you, good travelers?” Eric called to them. “And how can we help?”

“Alackaday!” the boy wailed. “You cannot help us. No one can! My sister Zelda and I are on our way to Gorzil’s cave!”

“Do you mean,” Wiglaf began, “that you are the son and daughter of the village? That you are to be Gorzil’s...breakfast?”

Zelda nodded. “I fear it is so. The Toenail village masters held a lottery. And alas—Gawain and I won!”

“If only a brave knight would slay Gorzil and save us!” Gawain said. “But there is no hope of that.”

Eric yanked his sword from its scabbard and held it high in the air.

“Fear not, young friends,” he cried. “Eric the Dragon Slayer is at your service!”

Gawain and Zelda stared at him.

“You?” Zelda said.

Eric nodded.

“You are but a boy!” she scoffed.

Eric sniffed. “I am first in my class at Dragon Slayers’ Academy,” he replied. “I shall slay Gorzil—no sweat!”

“Do you know how many brave knights have tried and perished in his flames?” Gawain asked.

“Um...no. But—” Eric began.

“Gorzil will toast you like a marshmallow!” Zelda declared. “Unless,” she added, “you come up with a clever plan.”

“A plan?” Wiglaf said. “What kind of-”

“Change clothes with us,” Zelda cut in. “Disguise yourselves as the son and the daughter of Toenail and catch Gorzil off guard!”

At first, Eric looked doubtful. Then he began to smile. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “I can see it now! At dawn,
we
shall appear at the mouth of Gorzil’s cave, dressed in your clothing. Gorzil will never suspect that behind my back I have a sword! When the dragon opens his jaws to eat me, I shall whip out my sword and plunge it deep into his throat. His whole body will shudder and—”

“But Eric,” Wiglaf broke in. “How can one of us pass for a
daughter
of the village?”

But Eric was already taking off his helmet. “Worry not, Wiglaf,” he said. “Just be quick and give your tunic to Gawain. Here, Zelda. Take my Sir Lancelot armor.” Eric handed the girl his helmet and chain mail. “As soon as we are dressed in their clothes,” Eric told Wiglaf, “we shall go thitherward to carry out our plan!”

The sun dawned on Wiglaf and Eric outside the mouth of Gorzil’s cave. With trembling fingers, Wiglaf finished tying his lucky rag to Surekill’s hilt. If ever he needed luck, it was now!

Wiglaf adjusted Gawain’s baggy tunic and trousers. Then he glanced over at Eric, who was wearing Zelda’s sky-blue dress. His brown hair peeked out from under her white lace cap.

“I was wrong to think you would not pass for a daughter of the village, Eric,” Wiglaf said.

Eric only nodded.

“That lace cap suits you,” Wiglaf went on. “If I were a dragon, I should believe you were a girl—and a fetching one, at that.”

“Enough!” Eric snapped. “Keep your thoughts on Gorzil!”

Just then a cloud of smoke billowed out of the cave, and a voice inside boomed, “I SMELL BREAKFAST!”

Wiglaf and Eric hid their swords behind their backs as a huge, green, snakelike head poked out from the smoke. The dragon’s eyes blazed orange. Steam rose from his jaws. Yellow slime dripped from his nose. Wiglaf had never seen anything so hideous.

So this was Gorzil! Wiglaf thought back to the minstrel’s tale. He gripped his sword more tightly. He hoped that Gorzil would not soon be using Surekill for his toothpick!

Gorzil puffed two smoke rings from his nose. “What luck!” he exclaimed. “Here are a tasty little son and daughter of the village. And here is Gorzil, hungry for breakfast! Daughter, have you any last words to say to Gorzil?”

Eric took a step forward. He whispered something. But even Wiglaf could not hear what it was.

“What? What?” Gorzil said. “Speak up, girl!” But Eric only whispered again.

The dragon stepped out from the cave. Slime trickled from his nose. It spattered on the ground in greasy yellow puddles. He lowered his head close to Eric. “Now Gorzil can hear better. What did you say, my delicious cookie?”

“I AM NOT YOUR COOKIE, GORZIL!” Eric shouted into the dragon’s ear. “I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE!” And he whipped his sword from behind his back.

An angry red crest rose from Gorzil’s head. Sparks shot from his nose. They scorched the hem of Eric’s dress. Then Gorzil raised the tip of his tail over his head and whacked Eric’s sword out of his hand.

Wiglaf and Eric watched it sail off into the woods.

“Uh-oh,” said Eric. He ducked behind a nearby boulder. “Quick, Wiglaf!” he called. “Draw your sword!”

Wiglaf stared up at the monster before him. He tried to remember what he had learned in his one-and-only slaying class. But Gorzil was no dummy dragon with a target painted under his chin. He was the real thing!

With a quivering hand, Wiglaf brought Surekill out from behind his back.

The dragon gazed at the rusty thing and chuckled.

“Surekill,” Wiglaf said, “slay the dragon!”

Surekill did not move.

“Surekill!” Wiglaf tried again. “Do the dragon in!”

Surekill made no thrust.

Yellow flames began to flicker from Gorzil’s nostrils.

“Surekill!” Wiglaf yelled. “HELP!”

In the blink of an eye, the sword leaped out of Wiglaf’s hand. It glowed red hot as it soared up, up into the air. Gorzil stopped flaming. Wiglaf and Eric and the dragon all stared as Surekill rose higher and higher into the clouds. They waited for it to reappear. But the sword had vanished.

At last, Gorzil fixed his gaze back on Wiglaf. “Too bad,” he chortled. “Now it is breakfast time!”

Gorzil opened his terrible jaws. Any second, Wiglaf knew, lightning bolts would strike him!

If only I had more time! he thought. Time
enough to discover Gorzil’s secret weakness! But
how? Wiglaf racked his brain. But he could think of nothing. Nothing!

At last, Wiglaf opened his mouth, and over Gorzil’s thundering roar, he yelled the first thing that came to his mind: “Knock! Knock!”

Instantly, the thunder stopped.

“A joke!” the dragon cried. “There’s nothing Gorzil likes better than a good joke! Breakfast can wait. All right....Who’s there?”

“Lettuce,” Wiglaf managed.

“Lettuce?” Gorzil snorted a puff of smoke. “Lettuce? Gorzil can guess! Easy! Oh, foo. Lettuce who?”

“Lettuce alone!” Wiglaf answered.

“Oooooh,” Gorzil groaned. “That was a bad joke.”

“Really bad,” Eric called from behind the rock.

“Gorzil
hates
bad jokes,” the dragon added.

In fact, Wiglaf thought that the dragon looked slightly ill.

“Try again, son of the village,” Gorzil ordered. “Tell Gorzil another joke. But make it a good one!”

“All right,” Wiglaf said. “Knock! Knock!”

The dragon perked up. “Gorzil will get this one! Who’s there?”

“Arthur!” cried Wiglaf.

“Arthur? Hmm. Oh, yes! Oh, poo. Arthur who?”

Wiglaf answered, “Arthur any dragons uglier than you?”

“Aghh!” Gorzil cried. “That was even worse!”