Revenge of the Dragon Lady (2 page)

Mordred rolled his violet eyes. “I don’t pay you to bring me weather reports, Yorick!”

“My lord,” Yorick said, “this is no ordinary cloud. It is a cloud of smoke.”

“Egad!” Mordred exclaimed. His eyes lit up with excitement. “You cannot mean...”

“I do, my lord,” Yorick continued. “A dragon is headed this way. My sources say it is a she-dragon. She is hunting down the warrior who slew her son.”

“Oh
!
”
Mordred cried. “There is nothing more terrible than an angry mother dragon! I wonder who this unlucky warrior can be?” He tapped his gold-ringed fingers on his chin. “Sir Freddy Headwhacker? No, I’ll bet it’s that old rascal, Sir Percy Smackbottom.”

“My lord,” Yorick said, “they say it is the warrior who killed the dragon Gorzil.”

“Gorzil?” Angus gasped. “Wiglaf! The dragon is coming after you!”

W
iglaf suddenly had a bad feeling in his stomach. And it wasn’t from the jellied eel.

“M-m-m-me?” he said.

“You, my boy!” Mordred exclaimed happily. “What luck!”

“Luck?” Wiglaf said. His heart pounded with fear. “It doesn’t seem lucky to me.”

At this moment, becoming a hero didn’t seem so important. Staying alive—that’s what mattered.

“Just think—a dragon coming right to my front door!” Mordred smiled. His gold front tooth shone in the torchlight. “Where there’s a dragon, there are sure to be piles and piles of GOLD close by! Oh, just thinking of it boggles the mind!”

“Sir?” Erica called out. “Remember how you sent Wiglaf and me out to kill Gorzil? Well, Wiglaf never even touched that dragon. He killed him by accident!”

“That’s true, sir,” Wiglaf added quickly.

“See?” Erica said. “Wiglaf even says it’s true! But I was ready to kill Gorzil the right way! I had drawn my sword! I was ready to cut off Gorzil’s ugly head! By all rights, it’s me that Gorzil’s mother should be hunting down!”

“Eric,” Mordred said patiently, “who turned Gorzil into dragon dust?”

“Well, uh... Wiglaf,” Erica admitted. “But-”

Mordred shook a finger at his student. “You must not be jealous of the feats of others,” he scolded.

Erica slumped down. “Sorry, sir,” she said.

“Are we clear on this?” Mordred asked. “The dragon is after Wiglaf? And Wiglaf alone?”

Wiglaf let out a groan.

“Yes, sir,” Erica answered glumly.

“Good.” Mordred turned back to his scout. “Yorick,” he said, “when will the dragon be here?”

“My lord,” Yorick replied, “I multiplied the length of the smoky cloud by its width. Then I subtracted the wind speed—”

“Spit it out, man!” Mordred yelled. “When?”

“My lord,” Yorick said, “when the noon bell rings on Friday, Seetha will arrive.”

“Friday!” Wiglaf cried. “But that’s only two days from—”

“Hush!” Mordred clamped a hand over Wiglaf’s mouth. “Yorick! What did you say the dragon’s name was?”

“Seetha, my lord,” said Yorick.

The smile faded from Mordred’s face. “Seetha? The Beast from the East? No!” he wailed. “It can’t be! This is too, too horrible!”

Wiglaf started shaking. Seetha must be awful indeed to make Mordred act this way!

“Yorick!” Mordred cried. “I beg you! Say her name is Deetha! Or Queetha! Or Loreetha!”

Yorick only shook his head.

“No dragon has ever come to DSA!” Mordred exclaimed. “Now one is coming. Any dragon in the world would bring along its golden hoard. Any dragon but one. And that one is Seetha!”

“She has no gold?” Angus asked.

“No!” Mordred cried. Tears sprang to his violet eyes. “Seetha cares nothing for gold! All she cares about is killing. She does it for fun!”

“For fun?” Wiglaf squeaked. He started shaking harder. And his teeth began to chatter. “But what does she...How does she...”

“Oh, Seetha loves fun and games,” Mordred said. “She plays with her victims for hours before she makes her kill. But she has no gold!” he moaned. “Woe is me! No gold!”

He waved a hand toward the dungeon door. “Go, boys. Detention is over. Just go. Leave me to my sorrow!”

Erica jumped to her feet. “Sir!” she cried. “What you need is a DSA cheer!” She turned to the rest of the students. “Let’s do
Look Out, Dragons!
Really yell it now. Ready? And!”

Then everyone—everyone but Wiglaf—marched out of the dungeon shouting:

G
orzil’s mother is coming to get me!” Wiglaf moaned. He lay on his cot that afternoon during rest hour. ”Oh, I’m toast!”

“Pipe down, Wiglaf!” said a tall boy in a cot by the door. “Some of us are trying to rest.”

“Go blow your nose, Torblad!” Erica snapped. She sat on the edge of Wiglaf’s cot. “I hate to think what you would be like if a dragon was hunting you down!”

Wiglaf moaned louder. He turned to a picture he had drawn of his pig, Daisy, curled up in her cozy bed in the DSA henhouse.

“My poor Daisy!” Wiglaf said. “When I’m gone, she will be all alone in the world.”

“That’s the least of your worries,” Angus offered from his cot on the other side of Wiglaf’s. “Here. This will make you feel better.” He broke off a piece of his Camelot Crunch Bar. He handed it to Wiglaf. “Maybe you should run away before Seetha gets here,” he added. “Maybe you should go home.”

“I can’t.” Wiglaf passed the candy on to Erica. He was not hungry. “My father told me not to come home without a pile of gold. And he has a temper as bad as Mordred’s.”

“Uncle Mordred isn’t so tough,” Angus said. “You should see him when my Aunt Lobelia comes for a visit. She is his big sister. And boy, does she ever boss him around. Once—”

“Angus! Stop talking about your aunt!” Erica broke in. “We have to help Wiggie figure out how he’s going to kill Seetha. Look.”

Erica reached into her pocket. She brought out two small lead figures. One was a tiny Sir Lancelot. The other was a tiny dragon.

“Here is how
The Sir Lancelot Handbook
says to do it,” she said. “‘Take up your sword. Smite the dragon on the noggin!’”

Erica made the little Lancelot bonk the little dragon three times on the head.

“Arrrrgh!”
she wailed. She made the little dragon flop down on its side. “I’m done for!”

“But Seetha won’t hold still while I try to smite her!” Wiglaf said. “And let’s face it,” he added, “I’m no Sir Lancelot.”

“I’ll say,” Erica snorted.

“What you need to do,” Angus said, “is find out Seetha’s secret weakness. If you can do that, you won’t have to smite her.”

“I was lucky to have guessed Gorzil’s weakness,” Wiglaf said. “But what are the chances of that happening again?”

“You don’t need luck,” Angus said. “You need the right book. There are loads of dragon books in the DSA library.”

“What?” Erica exclaimed. “DSA has a library?”

“We have a free period after rest hour,” Wiglaf said. “Let’s hit the library!”

B
ONG!
The bell ending rest hour rang.

Angus led Wiglaf and Erica out to the castle yard. Afternoon classes had just begun.

Sir Mort’s Stalking Class was learning how to sneak up on a dragon from behind.

Coach Plungett was teaching his Slaying Class the Gut Stab on the practice dragon.

The boys in Frypot’s Scrubbing Class were down on their hands and knees washing the castle steps. Mordred claimed that scrubbing was an important skill for future dragon slayers. But Wiglaf never understood exactly why.

The three reached the South Tower. They ran up a winding stone staircase to the DSA library.

Brother Dave, the librarian, looked up as they walked in. He had a round face and small, round glasses. He wore a brown monk’s robe.

“Good day, Angus!” Brother Dave exclaimed. “I see thou hast brought some friends here with thee on this fine afternoon!”

Brother Dave’s order of monks had to do good deeds. The deeds had to be so hard that most people could never do them. Brother Dave had decided to become the librarian at DSA, where few of the students—and none of the teachers—had ever read a whole book.

“Art thou here to work on a report that shall keep thee in the library many hours?” Brother Dave asked. He looked hopeful.

“No,” Wiglaf replied. “I’m not here about school work....”

“Oh! A child who reads for pleasure!” Brother Dave clasped his hands to his heart. He looked thrilled. “Maybe thou would like The
King Who Couldn’t Sleep
by Eliza Wake. A great story. Or perhaps thou might try
Into the Dark Forest
by Hugo First. Or, if thou likes poetry—”

“Brother Dave?” Angus cut in. “My friend Wiglaf here is in trouble. He is going to be roasted in two days unless we can get some facts about the dragon Seetha.”

“Seetha?” Brother Dave gasped. “Canst thou mean the Beast from the East?”

“You’ve heard of her, too?” Wiglaf cried. “Oh, please, Brother Dave! I need a book that will tell me Seetha’s secret weakness!”

Brother Dave grew thoughtful. “I know of only one book that might tell thee that,” he said. “Let me get it.” He dashed off and returned with
The Encyclopedia of Dragons.

Wiglaf gladly took the big book from the monk. Here in his very hands he might be holding the key to Seetha’s downfall. Who knew? Perhaps he would live to see Saturday after all!

Wiglaf turned the pages to the “S” section. He kept turning. At last he saw the name
Seetha.
A hideous face stared back at him from the page.

“Whoa!” Angus exclaimed. “That is one scary dragon lady!”

A horn grew out of Seetha’s head. Pink curly tentacles sprouted from the base of the horn. They hung down over her yellow eyes. A long tongue curved out of her fang-filled mouth.

“She looks mean, all right,” Erica said. “Where do you think you will plunge your sword, Wiggie? Here, in Seetha’s neck? Or in her heart? Or maybe in her big, fat gut? Or—”

“Stop!” Wiglaf said. “Let us see what the book has to say.”

What it had to say was this:

“Oh, I’m doomed!” cried Wiglaf.

“This does not look good for you, Wiggie,” Erica said.

The three friends read on. Wiglaf turned the page. Suddenly they all gasped. At the top of the page, it said:

Ink had spilled over the page. The rest of the word was covered with a thick black blob.

“Ba—what?” Wiglaf cried. “I need to know!”

Angus held the page up to the burning candle on Brother Dave’s desk. “I can’t make out the rest of the word,” he said. “But maybe Seetha’s weakness is the same as Gorzit’s—bad jokes.”

Erica shook her head. “No two dragons have the same secret weakness,” she said. “I read that in
The Sir Lancelot Handbook.”

“But ba—could be so many things,” Angus pointed out. “Bananas. Ballads. Barbecued beef on a bun.”

“Looks like you are going to have to slay this dragon the old-fashioned way—with your sword,” Erica told Wiglaf. “If I were you, I’d ask Coach Plungett for some extra help in slashing and bashing.”

Wiglaf nearly gagged at the thought. “But I’m no good at that stuff!”

“If I were thee,” the monk said, gazing down at Wiglaf, “I would start saying my prayers!”

B
a—could be bait,” Angus said. ”Or balloons. Or—”

“We have to go,” Erica cut in. “Or we’ll be late for Slaying. Thanks, Brother Dave!”

“Ba—could be banjos or back rubs or badminton,” Angus went on as they left the library.

“I’m doomed!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “Doomed!”