World's Oldest Living Dragon (3 page)

And there was Grizzlegore.

He looks
old
,” said Erica, staring at the portrait of Grizzlegore in the book. “Really old.”

“This book cameth out several years ago,” said Brother Dave. “So this dragon art even older now.”

Wiglaf was cheered to see that Grizzlegore was a scrawny old thing. He had bags under his drooping eyes. His forked tongue lolled from the corner of his toothless mouth. A string of drool dripped down onto his bony chest.

“He does not look like he could flame DSA,” he said. Then he turned the page to see what the book had to say about the World's Oldest Living Dragon.

Erica frowned. “Maybe Grizzlegore could flame DSA after all.”

Angus swallowed. “Maybe we should pack up and leave like Uncle Mordred.”

“Wait,” said Wiglaf. “Grizzlegore has a secret weakness.”

They read the last line on the page:

“Rhyme?” said Wiglaf. “What does that mean?”

Janice turned to Brother Dave. “What rhyme, Bro?”

“I knoweth not.” Brother Dave scratched his bald pate.

“The Secret Weakness is written in rhyme,” said Angus. “Maybe Grizzlegore's weakness is poetry.”

“We must find out,” said Erica. “Then we can fight this dragon and save DSA.”

Fight the dragon? Wiglaf shuddered. The words
Flames better with each passing year
jumped out at him from the page. Just then, an idea popped into his head.

“What about Sir Mort?” he asked. “He is old. Maybe he has met Grizzlegore. Maybe he will know about the rhyme.”

“Sir Mort hast evening class. Hurry and thou canst catch him,” Brother Dave said.

The four sped down the tower staircase. They ran through the hallway toward the room where the old knight taught Stalking a Fire-Breather. Sounds of Sir Mort's students shrieking and laughing spilled out into the hallway.

Angus yanked open the door. The students dove for their desks and pretended to be paying attention.

Sir Mort leaped up from his desk, where he had been happily snoozing. The visor of his helmet clanked down over his face.

“Never fear, Sir Mort is here!” he yelled, struggling to draw his sword. “Show me the dragon!”

“There is no dragon, sir,” said Erica. “At least not yet.”

“We have come to ask you a question, Sir Mort,” said Wiglaf.

Sir Mort let go of his sword and pushed up his visor. “I like questions,” he said. “Not too good at answers, though. Not since Knightshredder dealt me that blow to the noggin. Now there was a dragon, sir. Full of—”

Janice snapped her gum. “Here's the question, sir,” she said. “The dragon Grizzlegore has a secret weakness. It may have something to do with a rhyme. Do you know anything about it?”

“Ah, yes, Grizzlegore's rhyme,” Sir Mort said dreamily. “In my salad days, I could recite it from beginning to end.”

“Can you say it now, sir?” asked Erica.

“Say it! Say it!” chanted Sir Mort's class, hoping to get out of any work.

Sir Mort frowned. “How does it start? There's a first verse. I remember that. Then a second. Goes on like that, verse after verse.” He thought for a long time.

At last Wiglaf said, “Sir? Do you remember why this rhyme is Grizzlegore's weakness?”

“Why, indeed?” Sir Mort nodded. “Excellent question.”

“What is the answer, sir?” said Erica.

“Search me.” Sir Mort shrugged. “Don't have a clue.”

The next morning, Wiglaf and his friends set off once more for Ye Olde Home.

“Maybe one of the aged knights will know about the rhyme,” said Wiglaf as they went.

“Not a chance,” said Angus. “Those geezers are in worse shape than Sir Mort.”

“You never know,” said Janice. “My grandpa can't remember yesterday. Yet if you ask about his school days, he's as sharp as a sword tip.”

“Sir Lancelot will know the rhyme,” said Erica loyally.

“
Hola!
Hello!” Donn exclaimed as he opened the door of Ye Olde Home. “Come! I shall take you to the knights. They will be so glad to see you again.”

This time Donn led them to the sitting room. Wiglaf saw that today, the aged knights were working on craft projects. Some were weaving tapestries. Others were weaving cauldron-holders. Still others held paintbrushes and were making pictures from paint-by-roman-numeral kits.

“
Señor
knights!” Donn called. “Your young friends are here to visit you!”

A few aged knights waved, but most were too busy with their crafts.

The four made their way over to where Sir Lancelot, Sir Roger, and Sir Poodleduff sat. They were molding little dragons out of clay.

“I slew a dragon once with only a dagger,” Sir Poodleduff was saying.

“So?” said Sir Roger. “I once slew a dragon with only my peashooter.”

“I,” said Sir Lancelot, “once made the dragon Flibbergill fall down dead simply by staring him in the eye.”

“Braggart!” said Sir Poodleduff.

“Liar!” said Sir Roger.

“'Tis true what Sir Lancelot says,” said Erica. “He wrote about Flibbergill's death-by-staring on page three hundred and fifty-eight of
A Knight Like I
.”

Sir Lancelot smiled. “So I did.” He patted Erica on the head. “I like this lass!”

Erica beamed.

“Please, sirs, we have a question for you,” said Janice.

“Yes,” said Wiglaf. “We went to the library and looked up the secret weakness of the dragon Grizzlegore.”

“The book said, ‘Take the time to learn the rhyme,'” said Angus.

“Do you know what that means?” asked Erica.

“Grizzlegore?” Sir Roger shook his bald head. “Do you recall that dragon, Poodleduff?”

“Nay,” said Sir Poodleduff. “Perhaps you mean Grapplegrin. Now there's a scary dragon. Claws like sickles.”

“What did I tell you?” Angus murmured. “They're just like Sir Mort.”

“We mean Grizzlegore,” said Wiglaf.

“I know of him,” said Sir Lancelot. “When my far-older half brother, Liverspot, was a lad, he had to learn a long poem about Grizzlegore.”

“Hmmm,” said Sir Roger. “It's coming back to me now.”

“By the time I was in school,” Sir Lancelot went on, “the dragon had retired. Nobody had to learn the Grizzlegore poem.”

“The Grizzlegore poem!” cried Sir Poodleduff. “Why didn't you say so?”

“Of course we know it!” cried Sir Roger. “From start to finish.”

“Tell us how the rhyme is a secret weakness, sirs,” said Janice.

“When we were lads,” said Sir Poodleduff, “Grizzlegore was the most gold-grabbing, damsel-chasing, peasant-eating, knight-whacking, school-flaming dragon in all the land. And he could smell gold a mile away.”

Sir Lancelot turned to Erica. “Let me tell you about the time I slew the great Boar of Camelot.”

“Please, sir,” said Erica. “We need to find out about Grizzlegore.”

Sir Lancelot looked miffed.

“If Grizzlegore flew to a school,” Sir Roger said, “the headmaster had to give him every bit of gold or the school was toast. Unless…”

“Unless what?” said Erica.

“Unless pupils at the school knew the rhyme,” said Sir Poodleduff. “The
whole
rhyme.”

“And the dance steps,” added Sir Roger, giggling.

“Grizzlegore is coming to our school on April Fools' Day,” Wiglaf told the old knights.

Erica added, “And our headmaster is too greedy to pay him.”

“So Grizzlegore will burn down our school,” said Angus. “Unless we can stop him.”

“And if we know the rhyme, we
can
stop him,” said Erica. “Can you teach it to us? Please?”

“Do dragons have tails?” cried Sir Roger.

“Do knights have steeds?” cried Sir Poodleduff.

“Of course we can!” they cried together.

I'll start off,” said Sir Poodleduff.

“I'll learn it as you say it,” said Erica. “I'm very good at memorizing poems.”

Wiglaf crossed his fingers. He hoped that these aged knights knew the poem better than Sir Mort did.

Sir Poodleduff began:

Sir Poodleduff frowned. “What was it he had, Roger?”

“
He had a spiky tail!
” exclaimed Sir Roger, pounding his cane on the hard stone floor. “I'll take it from here.

Sir Lancelot yawned. Then he got up and went over to the tapestry corner.

Sir Roger recited on:

The other aged knights in Ye Olde Home gathered around Sir Roger and Sir Poodleduff. Their dry old lips moved as they, too, recited the verses they had all learned as lads.

Wiglaf's stomach lurched. He hoped this was not going to turn into a very bloody poem.

Sir Poodleduff took up the verse.

Sir Poodleduff stopped and smiled. “How do you like it?” he asked.

“'Tis a fine poem,” said Wiglaf, glad that it had not gotten bloody after all.

“'Tis very long,” said Angus doubtfully.

“Oh, yes.” All the aged knights nodded. “Very long indeed.”

“Start it again, please, sirs,” said Erica. “We will say it after you.”

Sir Roger started in:

Two hours later, Wiglaf's head was so stuffed with the Grizzlegore poem that he could hardly think. But he and his friends had managed to learn all eight verses. They repeated them together.

“We did it!” cried Erica.

“We can save DSA!” cried Wiglaf.

“Now teach us the dance steps,” said Janice, chewing her gum eagerly.

“But you wanted to learn the poem first,” said Sir Poodleduff.

“We did learn it,” said Angus.

“No, no, no.” Sir Roger shook his head. “That's just the
beginning
.”

“You mean there's
more
?” cried Janice, nearly swallowing her gum.

“Oh, my goodness, yes,” said Sir Poodleduff.

“Much more!” shouted the aged knights.