Chapter 1
W iglaf raced up the East Tower stairs of Dragon Slayersâ Academy. He zoomed down the hallway. He was giving up his lunch hour to go to Reportersâ Round Table. He did not want to be late.
Wiglaf reached Sir Mortâs classroom. He slowed down as he entered, trying to catch his breath. Sir Mort was stretched out with his armored feet up on his desk. Muffled snoring sounds came from behind his visor. Wiglaf tippy-toed past Sir Mort and slipped into a seat beside Angus.
âYouâre late, Wiglaf,â said Erica. She stood in front of Sir Mortâs desk, holding a quill and a clipboard.
âSorry,â said Wiglaf. âFrypot kept us late in Scrubbing Class.â
âAll right, reporters,â said Erica. âWho has story ideas for the DSA News ?â
âI want to write a story about my home-town, Toenail,â said Torblad.
âThis is a school paper, Torblad,â said Erica. âWe do school stories. Other ideas?â
Gwen raised her hand. âI want to write the âGet to Know Me!â pieceâon me ,â she said. âI could tell DSA News readers how it feels to be a very rich, very talented, and very fashionable princess.â
âFine,â said Erica. âBut keep it to one hundred words.â
âSo few?â cried Gwen. âBut Iââ
Erica cut her off. âMore ideas?â
Janice raised her hand. âHow about the Alchemy Convention?â
Erica tapped her quill thoughtfully on her cheek. âGo on,â she said. âWhatâs your angle?â
âHow Mordred rented out our school for the convention,â said Janice. âAnd how none of the alchemists made any gold.â
âOnly a huge mess,â muttered Angus.
âThat is why Scrubbing Class got out late,â added Wiglaf. âWe were scraping ashes off everything metal in the whole castle.â
âItâs your story, Janice,â said Erica.
Now Wiglaf spoke up. âI want to write about the animals at DSA,â he said. âAnd how we can take better care of them.â
âYou mean a story on your pig?â asked Erica.
âMore about the animals no one thinks of,â said Wiglaf. âThere are a great many rats and spiders at DSA, andââ
âBOR-ring!â cried Erica. âI want real news! Not rats and spiders!â
Ericaâs shouting woke Sir Mort.
âWhereâs the dragon?â he cried, clattering to his feet. âIâll slay that fire-breather, or my name isnât Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.â
âYou must be dreaming, sir,â said Erica. âYour name isnât Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.â
âNo?â said Sir Mort. âPity.â
âYour name is Sir Mort du Mort,â Erica went on. âYou are the faculty adviser for the school paper, DSA News .â
âWell, then,â said Sir Mort. âCarry on.â He sank back into his seat. He put his helmeted head down on his desk. Soon he was snoring again.
âWho wants to write a story about our headmaster?â Erica asked her reporters. âYou could find out what itâs like to run a school. What does Mordred do all day?â She looked around the room. âWho wants it? Angus?â
âI wouldnât touch that story with a ten-foot pole,â said Angus.
âIâll put it on the front page,â coaxed Erica.
Angus shook his head.
âHow about you, Wiggie?â asked Erica.
âI want to write about animals,â said Wiglaf.
âWhy not write it yourself, Erica?â
Erica scowled. âI am the editor-in-chief of this paper,â she said. âI donât write stories. I assign them.â Her face brightened. âAnd thatâs what Iâm going to do. Angus! Wiglaf! I hereby assign you the story on Mordred! Youâll do it together.â
âNo!â said Angus.
âIâm the boss,â said Erica. âAnd I