World's Oldest Living Dragon (2 page)

Wiglaf only shrugged.

“And look!” cried Sir Roger. “It's not a real autograph. Even I can see that! Lancelot's name has been rubber-stamped on the drawing. Fie!” He thrust it at Sir Poodleduff. “Here, you take it.”

“I don't want it!” cried Sir Poodleduff.

“Por favor!”
cried Donn. “Stop fighting!”

“Yes, stop!” cried Erica. She stepped forward. “Sir Lancelot is a perfect knight. He is my hero.”

“He was a hero once,” said Sir Roger.

“But not anymore,” said Sir Poodleduff.

“Of course he is!” cried Erica. “Get your ear horns ready, aged knights. You shall hear the poem I have written about Sir Lancelot.” Her words rang out:

As Erica recited, Wiglaf noticed the plump knight's cheeks growing red.

“Pooh!” called Sir Poodleduff.

“Hear this poem,” called Sir Roger.

All the aged knights roared with laughter.

Wiglaf saw that the plump knight was slouching way down in his chair. He looked as if he were trying to hide. Now Wiglaf was sure he had seen this knight before.

“Fine!” Erica shouted over the jeering. Her face was red. She looked angry. “I shall stop. But 'tis true. Sir Lancelot
is
a perfect knight.”

A smile crept onto the dark-haired knight's face.

Wiglaf gave a sudden gasp. He grabbed Erica's arm.

“That chubby knight,” he whispered. “He looks like Sir Lancelot!”

Erica stared at the chubby knight.

“You're right, Wiggie,” she said at last. “Yet Sir Lancelot never wrote a word in his autobiography,
A Knight Like I,
about any overweight relative.”

Donn tooted on a silver whistle.
“Bueno, señores!”
he called. “Snack time!”

Angus perked up. “Think we get a snack, too?”

Waiters began bringing in silver bowls of salted nuts and goblets of juice.

The chubby knight waved the waiters over. “Bowl of nuts—right here!”

While the snack was being served, Erica rushed over to the chubby knight. Wiglaf and the others were right behind her.

“Sir!” Erica said. “I have had the honor of meeting Sir Lancelot in person. And, except for an extra fifty pounds, you look very like him. Are you perhaps his cousin?”

“Nay,” said the knight, his chubby cheeks reddening. “I am Lancelot.”

Erica's mouth dropped open. “YOU are my hero, Sir Lancelot of the Lake?”

The knight raised his silver juice goblet and gazed at his reflection. “Yes, I am Lancelot,” he said. “But my hero days are over.”

“Oh, sir! What happened? Tell us, please.” Erica plopped down on the floor in front of Sir Lancelot.

The other DSA students sat down in front of Sir Lancelot, too.

“All right, you shall hear my tale,” said Sir Lancelot, brushing his hair back from his chubby cheeks. “For many years, I slew more wicked dragons than any other knight. I rescued more damsels. I fought the vilest villains. I was the best.”

“A perfect knight,” Erica sighed.

“Yes.” Sir Lancelot nodded in agreement. “But after a time, younger knights began nipping at my heels. One day as I was about to slay a wicked dragon, young Sir Gladblade came charging by and thrust in his sword first!”

“No!” said Erica.

“Yes,” said Sir Lancelot. “And that was only the beginning. The next week, as I was getting ready to rescue Lady Pink-Glove from a troll, young Sir Ironspur jumped in and saved her.”

“I'll bet she could have handled that troll herself,” Janice muttered.

“Not long after that, I threw a vile villain into a dungeon,” said Sir Lancelot. “The very next day, young Sir Silverboot fought two vile villains at once, and threw them both into a dungeon.”

“Zounds!” exclaimed Angus. “I should have liked to have seen that.”

Erica elbowed him sharply.

“What did you do then, sir?” asked Wiglaf.

“Why, I quit,” said Sir Lancelot.

“You
quit
?” cried Erica. “You, sir? Oh, say it's not so!”

“'Tis true.” Sir Lancelot nodded. “When you have been a perfect knight, it is hard to be anything less.” He reached into the bowl of salted nuts and tossed a handful into his mouth. “Instead of getting up at dawn,” he went on, chewing, “I started sleeping late and going fishing in the lake. I took up weaving. You should see the lovely flowery tapestries I made.”

“Weaving?” Erica looked stricken.

Sir Lancelot nodded. “I spent afternoons in my hammock, reading mysteries. And every night, I feasted. Life was fine until my catalog company went out of business.”

“So that's why my catalog never came!” cried Erica.

“Sorry, lass,” said Sir Lancelot. “You see, my evil twin brother, Leon, began making Sir Lancelot knock-offs.”

“You mean fakes?” said Wiglaf.

“Fakes.” Sir Lancelot nodded. “ ‘
Sir Lancelittle
,' he calls them. Sir Lancelittle tool belts. Sir Lancelittle armor. It's junk, but most villagers can't tell the difference.” He tossed back some more nuts. “The cheap stuff sells. My catalog business went belly-up. Soon I couldn't pay my servants. I had to move out of my palace. By that time, I'd gained so much weight that my steed couldn't carry me anymore. So I walked here, to Ye Olde Home, and begged to be taken in.”

“That's terrible!” cried Erica.

“Totally!” cried Janice, snapping her gum loudly.

“Awful!” said Angus.

Wiglaf shook his head. Sir Lancelot wasn't old. It was wrong for him to be busting out of his pajamas at a home for aged knights.

“But you are a living legend, sir!” cried Erica. “When the going gets tough, I often think,
What would Sir Lancelot do
?”

“Take a long nap,” said Sir Lancelot. “That's what I do most afternoons.”

“Listen, good sir!” cried Erica. “
This
is what my hero, Sir Lancelot, is like:

“Yes, well, that was then.” Sir Lancelot shrugged. “Fret not, lass. I am happy here.”

“But sir,” said Erica. “Do you not want to be the best?”

“Here, I
am
the best, without even trying,” said Sir Lancelot. “I'm the only one who can do ten jumping jacks in a row. And I have all my own teeth.”

“My hero Sir Lancelot always tried his best,” Erica muttered.

If Sir Lancelot heard her, he pretended not to.

On their way back to DSA, Janice picked up a piece of parchment lying in the path. She began reading it.

Erica was very glum as she went. She kept saying, “I can't believe it!”

“I can't believe
this
,” Janice said suddenly, stopping in her tracks. “A dragon is in the neighborhood.”

Wiglaf and the others stood on tiptoe and read over her shoulder:

“He is planning to hit DSA!” Wiglaf cried. “We must show this to Mordred.”

They started running. They came upon another copy of Grizzlegore's schedule. And another. The whole path was littered with them.

“The dragon must have dropped them all over the neighborhood,” Angus said, panting.

Back at school, they found the headmaster in his office. Janice handed him the parchment. As Mordred read, Wiglaf saw his face go purple with rage.

“Mordred looks like he might explode,” whispered Janice. “My Uncle Giles exploded. Boy, was that ever a mess.”

Wiglaf tried not to think about Janice's exploding uncle.

Mordred wadded the parchment into a ball and threw it to the floor. “Threaten to burn down my school, do you, Grizzlegore?” he cried. “Well, go ahead. But you're not getting your claws on any of
my
precious gold.”

“Good sir!” cried Wiglaf. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying no to Grizzlegore, that's what I'm saying!” shouted Mordred, still purple as a plum. “No gold, no how. DSA—up in flames? Pity. But all good things must come to an end. I'm packing up and getting out of here.” He began tossing items on his desk into a bag.

“Don't let our school go up in flames, Uncle!” cried Angus. “Please! Give the dragon some gold!”

“Nephew!” barked Mordred. “Bite your tongue!”

The four left Mordred to his packing and headed for the dining hall.

Angus shook his head. “I knew Uncle Mordred was greedy,” he said, “but I didn't know he was
this
greedy.”

“We can't let a dragon burn down our school,” said Janice.

“You're right, Janice,” said Erica. “It's up to us to save DSA.”

“Maybe Grizzlegore is all bluster,” said Angus. “I mean, if he's really that old, how much damage could he do?”

“Why don't we look him up in Brother Dave's book?” suggested Wiglaf.

After supper, that is exactly what they did.

“Brother Dave?” called Wiglaf as he climbed up the last of the 427 steps to the library tower. “Are you here?”

“Cometh thee in!” called Brother Dave. The little monk sat behind the circulation desk, knitting a long red scarf. A candle beside him was burning low. When he saw students entering his library, his eyes lit up with joy.

Angus was the last one through the library door. Huffing and puffing, he flung himself down onto a large dragon-shaped pillow under the window.

“What canst I doeth for thee, lads and lasses?” asked Brother Dave. “I haveth some fine new books.
Jousting to Victory,
by Ray Team;
Knocking at the Castle Door,
by Lee Tussin;
Favorite Medieval Manuscripts,
by Red M. All;
All About Mead,
by Phillip Mycup; and
When Did It Happen?,
by Oliver Sudden.”

“We want to find out about the dragon Grizzlegore, Bro Dave,” said Janice.

“Ah, letteth me getteth thou the
Encyclopedia of Dragons,
” said Brother Dave. He hopped up and went to the stacks. He returned quickly, carrying a big, heavy book. It had a brown leather cover and a large silver clasp. He set it down on the library table and they all gathered around.

Wiglaf flipped the pages past Edith, the talkative dragon who had scared Zack, the boy from the future. He flipped past Fiffner, one of the dragons who had wounded Sir Mort. And past Gorzil, the dragon that he himself had slain, quite by accident. He turned one more page.