Free Double Dragon Trouble by Kate McMullan

Chapter 1
    W iglaf raced up the East Tower stairs of Dragon Slayers’ Academy. He zoomed down the hallway. He was giving up his lunch hour to go to Reporters’ Round Table. He did not want to be late.
    Wiglaf reached Sir Mort’s 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.
    â€œYou’re late, Wiglaf,” said Erica. She stood in front of Sir Mort’s desk, holding a quill and a clipboard.
    â€œSorry,” said Wiglaf. “Frypot kept us late in Scrubbing Class.”
    â€œAll right, reporters,” said Erica. “Who has story ideas for the DSA News ?”
    â€œI want to write a story about my home-town, Toenail,” said Torblad.
    â€œThis is a school paper, Torblad,” said Erica. “We do school stories. Other ideas?”
    Gwen raised her hand. “I want to write the ‘Get to Know Me!’ piece—on me ,” she said. “I could tell DSA News readers how it feels to be a very rich, very talented, and very fashionable princess.”
    â€œFine,” said Erica. “But keep it to one hundred words.”
    â€œSo few?” cried Gwen. “But I—”
    Erica cut her off. “More ideas?”
    Janice raised her hand. “How about the Alchemy Convention?”
    Erica tapped her quill thoughtfully on her cheek. “Go on,” she said. “What’s your angle?”
    â€œHow Mordred rented out our school for the convention,” said Janice. “And how none of the alchemists made any gold.”
    â€œOnly a huge mess,” muttered Angus.
    â€œThat is why Scrubbing Class got out late,” added Wiglaf. “We were scraping ashes off everything metal in the whole castle.”
    â€œIt’s your story, Janice,” said Erica.
    Now Wiglaf spoke up. “I want to write about the animals at DSA,” he said. “And how we can take better care of them.”
    â€œYou mean a story on your pig?” asked Erica.
    â€œMore about the animals no one thinks of,” said Wiglaf. “There are a great many rats and spiders at DSA, and—”
    â€œBOR-ring!” cried Erica. “I want real news! Not rats and spiders!”
    Erica’s shouting woke Sir Mort.
    â€œWhere’s the dragon?” he cried, clattering to his feet. “I’ll slay that fire-breather, or my name isn’t Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.”
    â€œYou must be dreaming, sir,” said Erica. “Your name isn’t Sir Reginald Rabbitheart.”
    â€œNo?” said Sir Mort. “Pity.”
    â€œYour name is Sir Mort du Mort,” Erica went on. “You are the faculty adviser for the school paper, DSA News .”
    â€œWell, then,” said Sir Mort. “Carry on.” He sank back into his seat. He put his helmeted head down on his desk. Soon he was snoring again.
    â€œWho wants to write a story about our headmaster?” Erica asked her reporters. “You could find out what it’s like to run a school. What does Mordred do all day?” She looked around the room. “Who wants it? Angus?”
    â€œI wouldn’t touch that story with a ten-foot pole,” said Angus.
    â€œI’ll put it on the front page,” coaxed Erica.
    Angus shook his head.
    â€œHow about you, Wiggie?” asked Erica.
    â€œI want to write about animals,” said Wiglaf.

    â€œWhy not write it yourself, Erica?”
    Erica scowled. “I am the editor-in-chief of this paper,” she said. “I don’t write stories. I assign them.” Her face brightened. “And that’s what I’m going to do. Angus! Wiglaf! I hereby assign you the story on Mordred! You’ll do it together.”
    â€œNo!” said Angus.
    â€œI’m the boss,” said Erica. “And I