The Dreadful Dragon

by Kaye Umansky

  For Mo and Ella

  Contents

  Character Gallery

  The Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  So. The End.

  Chapter One

  Also by Kaye Umansky

  Chapter One

  Ronald in the Rain

  High in the Misty Mountains, it was raining, raining, raining! It rained on bushes, rocks and sheep. It rained on goats, rabbits and the odd wet wolf. It rained on everything, everywhere. But it rained particularly hard on the bedraggled figure toiling slowly up the slope leading to the Wizards’ Clubhouse.

  Ronald the Magnificent, youngest member of the Wizards’ Club, was coming home. Or trying to.

  ‘Arrrgh . . .’ gasped Ronald. His foot came out of the mud, leaving his shoe behind. ‘Oooer . . . arrrrghh . . .’

  It was lucky he had his Mystic Staff. He was using it as a kind of anchor to stop himself sliding back. He also had a decidedly un-mystic umbrella – a gift from his aunty, who was a Witch. It was small and girly, decorated with kittens and pink frills. He had to hold it at arm’s length to accommodate his tall Wizard’s Hat. It didn’t help. The rain just poured down his sleeve and collected in his armpit.

  His Cloak of Darkness was soaking up mud by the bucketful. This was a tragedy, as he hadn’t even finished paying for it yet. It was top of the range. Blue velvet with a star-spangled lining. A label saying Dry Clean Only. Not built for mud.

  ‘Arrrrghhhh . . . uuuhhh . . .’

  Viciously, Ronald stabbed the Staff into the ground. It slipped. His arms wheeled, the umbrella flew up and seconds later he was flat out in a puddle, moaning softly while rain flooded his nostrils and trickled into his ears. It was his fourth puddle of the day. He was getting used to them now. He closed his eyes and decided to just lie there for a while.

  It hadn’t been like this earlier that morning. The sun had been shining, the birds were singing and all was well. He had set out with a light heart, intending to enjoy a pleasant stroll down to Witchway Wood. He was decked out in full Wizards’ regalia – Mystic Staff, Hat of Knowledge, Robe of Mystery, Cloak of Darkness, the works – hoping to dazzle any passing admirers. Wisely, he didn’t have any money on him. Some bad types lurked down in the Wood. He didn’t want to be mugged by Goblins.

  He hadn’t taken ten paces before the sun went in, the birds shut up and it began to rain. In seconds, the trail became perilously slippery. It rained harder. When he had finally made it to the Wood, it was a deluge of mighty proportions.

  The weather often did bad things when Ronald went walking. Rain, hail, thunderstorms, blizzards, you name it. This, of course, was the work of his fellow Wizards, who never treated him with respect. They were always picking on him. Hiding his hat. Teasing him about his lack of beard. Pinning joke signs on his back. Sawing down his Mystic Staff and making out he’d grown in the night. Anything for a laugh.

  It had all started with his choice of name. Wizards’ first names are often boringly ordinary, so it isn’t surprising that they really go for it when it comes to choosing their titles. A Wizard’s title should reflect his personality, special skill or general all-round brilliance.

  Ronald’s choice was not the best. He had blurted it out without thinking when he had first blagged his way into the Club, all set to become a Wizard because he liked the flash clothes and had heard that the sausages were good.

  Wearing suit, tie and half a pot of hair gel, he had sailed in and demanded an interview. The receptionist had asked for his name and on the spur of the moment he had come out with it.

  ‘Ronald the Magnificent-ent-ent-ent!’ It echoed around the high rafters. It had a proud ring. Better than Ronnie Maggot, which was his real name.

  The receptionist was a Zombie with brass earrings and green hair. Her name badge said BRENDA.

  She stared and said, ‘Oh yeah.’

  The trouble was that, even on a good day, Ronald never looked magnificent. Everything on his head stuck out. Teeth, nose, ears, hair, everything. Only his chin went in, trailing off backwards into his neck. He was prone to pimples too. The home-made skin potions that his Witch aunty was always sending him stank the place out, so he just threw them away.

  The receptionist (BRENDA) had asked to see his Wizard’s Certificate. He didn’t have one, but he lied and said it was lost in the post and he was waiting for a replacement. He spoke haughtily.

  She had asked what grade he got in the exam. He said top marks, when he hadn’t even taken an exam. His only Magical knowledge came from My First Little Book of Wizardry, which he had found in a second-hand book shop and hadn’t even finished because it was harder than he thought.

  Then came the interview with the Wizards, when the lies came so thick and fast that, by rights, his nose should have been a mile long.

  When asked why he called himself Magnificent, he declared firmly that he was. Not would be one day. Was. When asked to demonstrate his skills, he said he’d hurt his finger. When quizzed about his relations, he said Magic ran in the family, although his dad was a plumber and his mum worked in a pie shop. He kept quiet about his Witch aunty. When asked about his reasons for wanting to join the Club, he said that he had always wanted to be a Wizard (although it actually came third, after a film star or a racing driver).

  Amazingly, he had got in! In fact, they had begged him to join. Wizards know the perfect butt for jokes when they see it. From then on, it had been downhill all the way.

  Of course, right now, it was uphill. In the rain.

  With a groan, he sat up and spat out a mouthful of mud.

  ‘Blggghh! Pth, pth, ptht!’

  The rain streamed gleefully down his Hat and on to his shoulders. He struggled up, retrieved the Staff and picked up the umbrella. Two spokes were broken and it wouldn’t open.

  Ronald didn’t care much. The umbrella was, frankly, embarrassing. But he hadn’t dared to buy a new one in case he bumped into his aunty, who lived down in Witchway Wood. Knowing his luck, she would leap from behind a tree saying something like, ‘Why, Ronald! A new umbrella, I see! The one I gave you not good enough?’, then march him back to her cottage and force-feed him cake while lecturing him about the meaning of gratitude.

  Today, there had been no sign of her. There was no sign of anybody. Anyone who had any sense was at home. Ronald had cowered miserably beneath a rain-lashed tree being laughed at by squirrels for hours before finally deciding to abandon ship and make a break for home.

  Easier said than done. The trail was now a mudslide. It was like walking up a jelly hill. For every two steps forward, he slithered back one.

  Still. Not far to go now. Last effort.

  Ronald tucked the umbrella under his arm and set off again, Cloak slapping wetly around his ankles. He didn’t have any socks on, so he was effectively paddling in his own shoes. This was his own fault. He had complained to Mrs Swipe, the Clubhouse laundress, about his Robe being returned with stains on. The following day, all his socks had arrived back so small that they wouldn’t have fitted an Elf. He had sent off for new supplies from the Catalogue but they were refusing to let him order anything else until he paid the last instalment on the Cloak.

  He rounded the final bend – and nearly wept with relief. There it was. Home!

  The Wizards’ Clubhouse sat at the top of a high peak. It was a fanciful affair, painted pink and gold, with t
urrets, towers, archways, walkways, gargoyles, statues, fountains and flags. The banners were drab and droopy with rain. The gargoyles were working overtime. The candy-coloured walls had turned an unpleasant shade of prune and the gold paint had lost its glitter. It looked like a wedding cake in a rock pool.

  Ronald hurried under the archway. Right on cue, a stream of dirty water erupted from a gargoyle’s mouth and poured down his neck.

  ‘Hwhooop,’ burped the gargoyle. ‘Better out than in!’

  ‘Thanks for that, rock head!’ snarled Ronald.

  ‘Any time, loser,’ said the gargoyle. They weren’t on good terms.

  Ronald splashed across the courtyard through the large pool of water spreading around the base of the ornamental fountain, which was blocked with leaves. He climbed the steps to the imposing, star-studded main door. It was fitted with a Magicom – a small, square box to one side, which communicated with Reception. The knocker was carved in the shape of a Demon’s face with a letterbox mouth. Ronald lifted its heavy nose ring and knocked three times.

  ‘Ow!’ complained the knocker, as it always did. ‘Clumsy!’

  ‘Get over it,’ snapped Ronald, as he always did, then snatched his hand away before it went for his fingers. Rain, gargoyles, knockers, they all had it in for him. No respect at all.

  He waited, squelching from foot to foot, mumbling, ‘Come on, come on!’

  There came a crackling noise from the Magicom, followed by heavy breathing and the distinct sound of chewing. A bored voice said, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It is I,’ said Ronald commandingly, as a Wizard should. ‘Let me in, forsooth.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I. Me.’

  ‘Imy? Never ’eard of ’im.’

  ‘No, me! Me! Ronald the Magnificent!’

  ‘Oh.’ The voice sounded deeply disappointed. ‘Password?’

  ‘Open Sesame.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me.’

  There was a pause. Ronald waited, teeth chattering. Finally, the voice came back.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘What d’you mean, wrong? Hurry up, Brenda, it’s tipping it down out here.’

  ‘Say the right password, then.’

  ‘I did. It’s Open Sesame.’

  ‘It’s changed.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Changed to what?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘How? I don’t know what it’s changed to.’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘Who changed it? When?’

  ‘All of ’em. Come down and told me right after you went out.’

  ‘I suppose that’s their idea of a joke,’ fumed Ronald. ‘I suppose they think that’s funny.’

  ‘Well, they was laughin’ a lot.’ There was a little pause.

  ‘Come on, Brenda,’ begged Ronald. ‘You know it’s me.’

  ‘Don’t. Can’t see through wood, can I?’

  ‘You know my voice, though.’

  ‘Might be somebody else pretendin’.’

  ‘Well, it’s not. Look, this is ridiculous!’ Ronald drew back his foot and was just about to kick the door when a voice came from behind him.

  ‘Are you going to be long?’

  Chapter Two

  No Respect

  A girl stood behind him. She wore a hooded cloak and stout brown boots. Over her arm was a basket covered with a checked cloth. Some peasant girl, obviously, come to sell eggs or something.

  ‘What?’ said Ronald.

  ‘Could you stand aside, please? I’d like to get in.’

  Ronald stared at her. Didn’t she realise what he was? He was a Wizard. Wizards don’t stand aside for anyone. He hid the umbrella behind his back and drew himself up to his full height. He was just that bit taller than she was. Good. He could speak down to her.

  ‘Girl,’ he said haughtily. ‘Use the Trade Entrance. This door is for Members.’

  ‘And you’re one, are you?’

  ‘Certainly. I am Ronald the Magnificent.’

  ‘Well, in you go, then.’

  ‘I’m trying to,’ snapped Ronald. ‘I’m having a little trouble.’

  ‘In that case, shove out of the way.’ The girl brushed past him, stepped up to the door and put her mouth to the Magicom.

  ‘Hattie Crabbit,’ she said briskly. ‘Open up.’

  To Ronald’s great annoyance – with a theatrical squeak – the door swung obligingly open.

  ‘Needs a drop of oil, that,’ said the girl called Hattie Crabbit. And she strode in.

  The door began to swing shut, but Ronald managed to beat it. He squeezed in just before it crashed behind him, nearly taking his hand off.

  Wizards have gaudy tastes when it comes to interior decorating. The lobby was a riot of clashing colours. Red flock wallpaper, purple carpet with a swirly pattern, crystal chandeliers with black candles dribbling wax. Heavily bearded ancients scowled down from gilt-framed portraits.

  A life-sized golden statue of Mervyn the Mighty, founder of the Club, stood by the door with a dramatically outflung arm. He should have held a lightning bolt, but it had snapped off and was currently propped against his feet, waiting to be fixed. He badly needed a new paint job. To add insult to injury, someone had draped a woolly scarf over his nose.

  On the far side was a reception desk. Its surface was dominated by a large, jewel-encrusted spellophone. The pink receiver was shaped like a scorpion. Or a king-sized prawn. Hard to say.

  Behind the desk slumped Brenda. She was chewing gum and painting her nails purple.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hattie Crabbit, walking past and disappearing down a corridor.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Brenda, blowing a bubble and not even looking up.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Ronald, squelching across to the desk, oozing mud at every step.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m just asking. Honestly. Can’t I ask a polite question?’

  ‘Take yer shoes off. Yer muckin’ up the carpet.’

  ‘I will take my shoes off,’ said Ronald crossly, ‘when you tell me who that girl was.’

  ‘Old Crabbit’s niece, if you must know.’

  Just then, the spellophone rang. Well, it didn’t exactly ring. Being Wizardly, it let out a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek.

  ‘PICKMEUP-PICKMEUP-PICKMEUP-PICKMEUP-PICKMEUP –’

  At the same time, the dial burst into flame, spinning round like a demented Catherine wheel. This went on until Brenda picked up the receiver, trying not to smudge her nails.

  ‘Yeah? Oh, it’s you, Pauline. Nah, I ain’t busy. Doin’ me nails.’

  ‘How come you let her in without a password?’ demanded Ronald.

  ‘Purple,’ said Brenda down the phone, ignoring him. ‘Finkin’ of dyein’ me hair to match.’

  ‘I said how come you let her in without a password?’ repeated Ronald, raising his voice.

  ‘Yeah, I know green suits me, but I fancies a change.’

  ‘HOW COME YOU LET HER –’

  ‘’Ang on, Pauline, I gotta deal with this nutter.’ Brenda glared at Ronald and said, ‘Because. Old. Crabbit. Said So. Right?’

  ‘Well, Brenda,’ said Ronald stiffly, ‘I must say I am not impressed. You refuse entry to me, an actual Member of this club, an actual Wizard, just because I don’t happen to have the current password, yet you let the caretaker’s niece stroll in without so much as a –’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Brenda, back on the phone again. ‘Yeah, there’s always one.’

  ‘Look,’ shouted Ronald, ‘I really think I deserve an expla—’

  ‘’Ang on a sec, Pauline.’ Brenda slammed down the receiver. ‘Look, I’m on the phone! Yer drippin’ all over the place. Drop yer clothes off with Mrs Swipe.’ She picked up the receiver. ‘Pauline? Yeah, yer right, mad as a box of frogs . . . no, I’ve dealt with ’im now, he’s just goin’. So. Purple, whatcha fink?’

  Ronald decided to call it a day. He needed to get out of his wet clothes before he caught a
chill. He turned on his heel and squelched off down the corridor, fuming.

  ‘Put that umbrella in the bin!’ ordered Brenda from behind him.

  Ronald dropped the umbrella on the floor and squelched on.

  ‘I saw that!’ shouted Brenda. ‘I’m tellin’ yer aunty!’

  Ronald dripped down the flight of stone steps that led to the Laundry. He opened the door and a great cloud of steam hit him in the face. Inside, a team of sweating girls moved around the washtubs through tumbling clouds of fog. They were watched over by Mrs Swipe, who had biceps like a wrestler, a soaked apron, a big red face and a tight little mouth.

  She saw Ronald hovering in the doorway, folded her meaty arms and said, ‘Oh, it’s you. What now?’

  ‘Oh – er, hello, Mrs Swipe,’ said Ronald. ‘I was wondering if I could drop off my things?’

  ‘Oh, you were, were you?’

  ‘Yes. If that’s all right.’

  ‘You couldn’t ’ave put ’em outside in the basket in the proper manner first thing this morning?’

  ‘Well – they weren’t dirty then, you see. It’s just that I went for a walk and . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard all the excuses. Pass ’em over, but don’t expect ’em back until the end of the week. Just the Cloak and shoes, is it?’

  ‘Yes. I’d – um – I’d be grateful if you’d take extra care with the Cloak. The stars on the lining . . . quite delicate, you know . . . the label says Dry Clean Only . . .’

  ‘You still tryin’ to tell me ’ow to do my job?’

  ‘No,’ said Ronald hastily. ‘Certainly not, no, no. Who, me? No.’

  As we have already heard, it doesn’t do to upset Mrs Swipe.

  Hastily, he took off the filthy Cloak and his sodden shoes, exposing his big, damp, bony feet. Mrs Swipe snatched the shoes and Cloak and slammed the door in his face. That made the third person who had been rude to him that morning, not including the gargoyle and the knocker. It was clearly going to be one of those particularly disrespectful days.

  Dressed only in his Robe and Hat, arms clutched over his shivering chest, he slapped barefoot along the corridor to the next door. Behind it, he could hear the kitchen staff shouting cheerily. He pulled it open. Instantly, the conversation ceased. Maids, footmen and pastry cooks all stopped in their tracks and stared.