grinned. Moments like this were the best part of being at Dragon Slayers’ Academy! He grabbed an eel. He threw it across the room. Then he joined in the chant that boys at the Class III table had started: “No more eel! No more eel!”
Soon the dining hall was filled with the sound of feet stomping and voices chanting: “No more eel! No more eel!”
Wiglaf picked up the last eel from his plate. He eyed the life-sized bust of Mordred that sat on a post by the door. The headmaster’s thick hair, his big popping eyes, and his wide smile had been carved into stone.
Wiglaf took aim. “This one is for you, Mordred!” he yelled. Then he hurled his eel at the stone head.
But at that very moment, the flesh-and-blood headmaster walked through the dining hall door.
Wiglaf stared in horror as his eel hit the real Mordred’s face with a mighty splat!
Chapter 2
T he eel stuck to Mordred’s forehead. Green eel juice dripped into his angry violet eyes. It trickled down his cheeks to his beard.
“You!” Mordred roared at Wiglaf. “I should have known!” He ripped the flattened fish from his forehead. He threw it over his shoulder.
“You!” Mordred thundered. He glared at Wiglaf. “The only DSA pupil ever to slay a dragon! But did you bring me Gorzil’s gold? You did NOT!”
“I-I tried to, sir,” Wiglaf said. “But the villagers ran into Gorzil’s cave, and—”
“Excuses! Excuses!” Mordred shouted. “And you never paid your tuition! You still owe me seven pennies!”
“That is true,” Wiglaf began. “But you see, sir, my family has no money. And my father wanted me to sell my pig. But I—”
“And now you go and hit me with an eel!” Mordred cut in. “As soon as you pay your seven pennies, I shall kick you out of school!”
Mordred took a big red handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the last of the eel juice from his face.
“But, now,” he continued, “it’s detention for one and all!” He pointed a fat gold-ringed finger toward the stairs. “To the dungeon! March!”
The DSA students lined up. They marched down three flights of stone steps. One by one, the pupils filed into the cold, damp dungeon.
When everyone was inside, Mordred slammed the door. He lit a pair of torches on the wall.
“Angus! Come here!” the headmaster barked. “The rest of you, sit!”
Angus stepped forward. Wiglaf and the rest of the students sat down on the hard floor.
Mordred gave Angus a jar of quills and several bottles of ink. “Pass these around,” he ordered. “Then give out the parchment.”
Angus obeyed in silence.
At last everyone had writing supplies.
“Write down all one hundred rules for future dragon slayers,” Mordred said. “Neatly, now. No cross-outs or ink blots allowed.”
Erica’s hand shot up. “Is there a prize for whoever finishes first?” she asked.
“No, Eric. This is a punishment.” Mordred frowned at the hourglass he wore strapped to his wrist. “You have two hours. Begin!”
Two hours! Wiglaf’s heart sank as he dipped his quill into an ink bottle. He wrote:
100 Rules for Future Dragon Slayers
1. A future dragon slayer will gladly lay down his life to get gold for Mordred.
2. A future dragon slayer never complains—especially in letters home.
3. A future dragon slayer eats what is on his plate—no matter what it looks like.
4. Or tastes like.
5. Or smells like.
Five down, Wiglaf thought. Only ninety-five to go. He glanced over at Erica’s paper. How had she written eighteen rules already?
6. A future dragon slayer must keep his sword sharp and ready for action.
Swords! thought Wiglaf. That’s all anybody at DSA cares about. He had killed a dragon! So what if he hadn’t used his sword. He had done it with jokes. But shouldn’t that count for something? It didn’t seem to. Nobody seemed to think slaying a dragon with jokes was one bit heroic. Wiglaf sighed. How was he ever going to become a hero?
Wiglaf had just dipped his quill into the ink
Soon the dining hall was filled with the sound of feet stomping and voices chanting: “No more eel! No more eel!”
Wiglaf picked up the last eel from his plate. He eyed the life-sized bust of Mordred that sat on a post by the door. The headmaster’s thick hair, his big popping eyes, and his wide smile had been carved into stone.
Wiglaf took aim. “This one is for you, Mordred!” he yelled. Then he hurled his eel at the stone head.
But at that very moment, the flesh-and-blood headmaster walked through the dining hall door.
Wiglaf stared in horror as his eel hit the real Mordred’s face with a mighty splat!
Chapter 2
T he eel stuck to Mordred’s forehead. Green eel juice dripped into his angry violet eyes. It trickled down his cheeks to his beard.
“You!” Mordred roared at Wiglaf. “I should have known!” He ripped the flattened fish from his forehead. He threw it over his shoulder.
“You!” Mordred thundered. He glared at Wiglaf. “The only DSA pupil ever to slay a dragon! But did you bring me Gorzil’s gold? You did NOT!”
“I-I tried to, sir,” Wiglaf said. “But the villagers ran into Gorzil’s cave, and—”
“Excuses! Excuses!” Mordred shouted. “And you never paid your tuition! You still owe me seven pennies!”
“That is true,” Wiglaf began. “But you see, sir, my family has no money. And my father wanted me to sell my pig. But I—”
“And now you go and hit me with an eel!” Mordred cut in. “As soon as you pay your seven pennies, I shall kick you out of school!”
Mordred took a big red handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the last of the eel juice from his face.
“But, now,” he continued, “it’s detention for one and all!” He pointed a fat gold-ringed finger toward the stairs. “To the dungeon! March!”
The DSA students lined up. They marched down three flights of stone steps. One by one, the pupils filed into the cold, damp dungeon.
When everyone was inside, Mordred slammed the door. He lit a pair of torches on the wall.
“Angus! Come here!” the headmaster barked. “The rest of you, sit!”
Angus stepped forward. Wiglaf and the rest of the students sat down on the hard floor.
Mordred gave Angus a jar of quills and several bottles of ink. “Pass these around,” he ordered. “Then give out the parchment.”
Angus obeyed in silence.
At last everyone had writing supplies.
“Write down all one hundred rules for future dragon slayers,” Mordred said. “Neatly, now. No cross-outs or ink blots allowed.”
Erica’s hand shot up. “Is there a prize for whoever finishes first?” she asked.
“No, Eric. This is a punishment.” Mordred frowned at the hourglass he wore strapped to his wrist. “You have two hours. Begin!”
Two hours! Wiglaf’s heart sank as he dipped his quill into an ink bottle. He wrote:
100 Rules for Future Dragon Slayers
1. A future dragon slayer will gladly lay down his life to get gold for Mordred.
2. A future dragon slayer never complains—especially in letters home.
3. A future dragon slayer eats what is on his plate—no matter what it looks like.
4. Or tastes like.
5. Or smells like.
Five down, Wiglaf thought. Only ninety-five to go. He glanced over at Erica’s paper. How had she written eighteen rules already?
6. A future dragon slayer must keep his sword sharp and ready for action.
Swords! thought Wiglaf. That’s all anybody at DSA cares about. He had killed a dragon! So what if he hadn’t used his sword. He had done it with jokes. But shouldn’t that count for something? It didn’t seem to. Nobody seemed to think slaying a dragon with jokes was one bit heroic. Wiglaf sighed. How was he ever going to become a hero?
Wiglaf had just dipped his quill into the ink
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