again when he heard a fluttering noise. He and several others looked up. At the barred window of the dungeon they saw the face of a giant bird!
Mordred looked up, too.
“Zounds!” he yelped. “A bird of evil omen has come to devour us all!”
“My lord!” the bird called. “It is I, your scout, Yorick.” He reached out a wing tip and pulled off his big yellow beak. “See?”
“Yorick!” Mordred cried. “Quick! Come down here! Bring me your news!”
A moment later, Yorick waddled into the dungeon. He was covered from head to toe with grimy gray feathers.
“My lord,” Yorick said, “I have been spying for you on Buzzard’s Peak.”
“Ah!” Mordred nodded. “So that explains your buzzard disguise.”
Wiglaf thought Yorick looked like a huge pigeon. But he kept his thought to himself.
“My lord,” Yorick went on, “a black cloud is blowing in from the east.”
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!”
Chapter 3
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!”
Mordred looked up, too.
“Zounds!” he yelped. “A bird of evil omen has come to devour us all!”
“My lord!” the bird called. “It is I, your scout, Yorick.” He reached out a wing tip and pulled off his big yellow beak. “See?”
“Yorick!” Mordred cried. “Quick! Come down here! Bring me your news!”
A moment later, Yorick waddled into the dungeon. He was covered from head to toe with grimy gray feathers.
“My lord,” Yorick said, “I have been spying for you on Buzzard’s Peak.”
“Ah!” Mordred nodded. “So that explains your buzzard disguise.”
Wiglaf thought Yorick looked like a huge pigeon. But he kept his thought to himself.
“My lord,” Yorick went on, “a black cloud is blowing in from the east.”
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!”
Chapter 3
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!”
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