Wheel of Misfortune

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Text copyright © 1999, 2003 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright © 1999, 2003 by Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street. New York. NY 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-14212-7

KLMNOPQRST

“
Y
ou three!” Frypot called, hurrying into the Dragon Slayers’ Academy kitchen.

Wiglaf, Angus, and Erica looked up from the soapsuds in the kitchen sink. They had been in Scrubbing Class all afternoon, scouring greasy pots and pans.

“Us three?” they asked together.

“You are the only three here,” Frypot pointed out. “Who else could I mean? Mordred wants to see you. Put down your scrub brushes—”

Three scrub brushes splashed into the suds.

“And get yourselves to Mordred’s office,” Frypot said. “On the double!”

The three raced out of the DSA kitchen.

“Angus,” Wiglaf said as they ran, “what do you think your uncle Mordred wants?”

Angus shrugged. “Most likely he wants us to scrub the privy.”

“Or clean out the henhouse,” suggested Erica.

Wiglaf feared his friends were right. The headmaster of Dragon Slayers’ Academy never sent for his students to give them good jobs. Maybe he had more scrubbing for them. Or maybe something worse.

Wiglaf wondered how Angus felt about his uncle Mordred never giving him a break on the chores. He also wondered what Erica thought of so much scrubbing. Nobody but Wiglaf knew that she was really Princess Erica, daughter of Queen Barb and King Ken. Erica longed to be a dragon slayer, so she disguised herself as a boy and went by the name of Eric. She fooled Mordred. He had let her into the all-boys DSA. Surely at home in the palace, Erica never had to scrub anything. Yet she never complained.

The three reached the headmaster’s office. Angus knocked on the heavy wooden door.

“Enter!” cried Mordred.

They walked inside. Wiglaf was surprised to see three stools lined up facing Mordred’s big desk.

“Come in.” Mordred waved them into his office. “Sit down.”

They sat. Wiglaf saw that three small pots of ink had been placed on Mordred’s desk. A writing quill lay across each pot.

What is Mordred up to?
Wiglaf wondered.

“The three of you are always in that laboratory,” Mordred began as he picked up some parchment sheets from his desk

“What laboratory, Uncle?” asked Angus.

“The one in the North Tower,” Mordred said. “The one with all the books.”

“Do you mean the library, sir?” Erica asked.

“Library, laboratory.” Mordred shrugged. “My point is that you seem to like books. Perhaps you have even read one?”

“A good many of them, sir,” Wiglaf said.

“Fine!” Mordred boomed. “For I have heard it said that reading can add to one’s knowledge.”

“That is true, sir,” Erica told him. “I have read seven books about Sir Lancelot and—”

“Good, good. Now let’s see what else you know,” Mordred cut in. He began handing out the parchment. “These are your answer sheets.”

Wiglaf took a sheet. It had numbers on it and circles filled with tiny letters
a, b, c,
and
d.

“Here are your test booklets,” Mordred added. He put one on each desk. A blob of sealing wax kept the students from peeking inside.

“What test are we taking, sir?” Erica asked.

“Shhhh!” Mordred said. “No talking! This is the S.A.T.—M.E.”

“What does that stand for, sir?” Wiglaf asked.

“Some Awful Test, Medieval Edition,” Mordred answered. “It is an all-day test. But
I
haven’t got all day. So work fast, lads. The test will tell me how smart you are.”

“Why do you need to know that, Uncle?” Angus asked.

“No more questions!” Mordred said. “When I say ‘begin,’ begin. And make no mistakes,” he added. “Erasers have not yet been invented. Ready?” Mordred’s violet eyes swept from Wiglaf to Angus to Erica. “Begin!”

Wiglaf broke the sealing wax. He opened his test booklet to:

Wiglaf wondered who had written this drivel.

Wiglaf’s stomach lurched. Why, he had a blob of dark goo on his bread that very morning! This was more than Wiglaf cared to know about mold. Or the future. He decided to skip to the questions.

1.
What is mold?

2.
Where is mold likely to be found?

3.
Does mold have any practical uses?

4.
What can we do to keep mold from forming?

“Stop!” Mordred cried.

“But, sir!” Erica said. “I am not finished!”

Mordred snatched up the answer sheets. “We are short on time here.” He took out The
Headmaster’s Answer Guide to the S.A.T—M.E.
He began checking their tests.

At last Mordred slammed the answer book shut. He eyed Wiglaf. “Nice work, lad. You only missed one.”

Wiglaf smiled. He was not going to point out that he had answered only one question.

“You three will do!” Mordred exclaimed.

“Do for what, sir?” asked Wiglaf.

“For the team,” Mordred replied. “You shall represent DSA in the All-Schools Brain-Power Tournament!”

“We shall make DSA proud, sir!” Erica said.

“That’s the spirit, Eric!” said Mordred. “This is the first year DSA has been invited to the tournament. We will be competing against Dragon Stabbers’ Prep, Knights R Us, and Knights Noble Conservatory. The winning school always gets hundreds of new boys applying.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If you win, I could hike up the tuition. Maybe as high as nine or ten pennies a year.”

“Is there a prize for the winning team, Uncle?” asked Angus.

“You ninny!” Mordred exclaimed. “Would I have gotten you out of Scrubbing Class if there were no prize? The prize,” he added, as a golden glow lit his violet eyes, “is a huge gold trophy filled with one gold coin for every point scored by the winning team.”

“Oh, boy!” cried Angus.

“The gold is for
me,”
Mordred snapped. “Er... I mean, for dear old Dragon Slayers’ Academy.” Mordred turned toward the doorway. “Bragwort!” he bellowed. “Come here and meet your teammates!”

“
B
ragwort?” Wiglaf turned to Erica. ”Is not Bragwort the student who always reminds Sir Mort when he forgets to give us a test?”

Erica nodded. “That’s him.”

“I always get an A
⁺
on all Sir Mort’s tests,” a boy said from the doorway of Mordred’s office.

Wiglaf saw that it was Bragwort, all right. He was tall, with curly yellow hair. His turned-up nose reminded Wiglaf of his pet pig’s snout.

“I do so well that Sir Mort lets me grade his test papers,” Bragwort went on.

“No wonder you get an A
⁺
,” Angus murmured.

“Bragwort did not miss a single question on his S.A.T.—M.E.,” Mordred said.

“Naturally,” Bragwort said. “I never do.”

“So he shall be the team captain,” Mordred added.

“No fair,” Erica muttered.

Mordred didn’t seem to hear her. He was beaming at Bragwort.

“Worry not, sir,” Bragwort put in. “With me on the team, losing is impossible!”

“We must prepare,” Erica said. “Let us go up to the library. Surely Brother Dave will have some excellent books to lend us.”

“Sorry,” said Mordred. “No time for that sort of thing. The teams must register at Knights Noble Conservatory tomorrow evening. You’ll have to leave right away. I shall come to KNC on Saturday afternoon to take home the gold that you have won for me. Score high, lads! Now, be gone!”

“I’m already packed,” Bragwort told his teammates. “I’ll meet you by the gatehouse.”

Wiglaf, Erica, and Angus hurried to the Class I dorm room. Wiglaf quickly threw his things into his pack: his rusty sword, a change of underwear, and his least dirty socks. Then the three stopped by the DSA kitchen.

“Just in time to finish up before suppertime.” Frypot said when he saw them. “There is still a layer of boar grease on the cauldron.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Wiglaf. “But we must journey through the Dark Forest this very night.”

“Whatever for?” asked Frypot.

“Mordred has chosen us to represent DSA in the All-Schools Brain-Power Tournament at KNC,” Erica said proudly.