In fact, I’d wanted to start Operation Dark Lord today, but I still didn’t have a plan. And Rats was just making my situation worse by talking about all those awe-inspiring things I didn’t know HOW to do.
It was time to silence him. I needed to tell the class that we had a grim leader, or at least the makings of one. I threw up my hand again. Unfortunately, the great and terrible bell rang, and the grimmies rushed out of the room before Blackwood had a chance to call on me.
Everyone in the Sixth Level of Darkness is in the same history class, but we go our separate ways afterward. The orcs and ogres wander off to Basic Bashing, where they learn stuff like “pleasant pillaging” and “rage-free wrecking.” And the goblins who aren’t warlocks go to classes like Tin Cups: The Next Wonder of the World and Carpentry! Make Those Trees Work for You! And there was always a culinary class or two, Vegetable Delights or something like that.
Warlocks like me attend Remedial Spell Casting, which is where we’re supposed to learn our craft, but they never teach us anything WORTH learning. And it’s a pretty small class. There’s only Tempest Shadowood, Davos Singethumb, Rats Wormfinger, and me. There aren’t many of us in the grim lands. Anyone can be born with magical talent, but it takes a lot of study to become a warlock. Spellcasting is complex stuff. So if you’re waiting around to see an orc or some ogre shoot lightning from his fingertips, I wouldn’t hold my breath. Those folks just don’t cut it in the warlock world. And since we don’t take up as much space as the ogres, they put us in this really tiny room. I’m almost certain it used to be a broom closet.
We squeezed into the classroom and found our seats while our new professor slipped in after us. Luckily, she was a goblin, and a slender one at that. Otherwise, I don’t think she’d have fit in the gap between the first desk and the chalkboard.
She stopped in front of the class, but she didn’t say anything, not until two of the grimmies clapped. Apparently, she was some sort of “famous” witch. I guess that’s why she expected the applause.
“I’m Professor Dies Irae,” she said in a voice that was high enough to crack glass, “and I’ve given each of you a copy of my book, Lost in Knots, by me, Dies Irae.” A massive textbook sat like a boulder on each of our desks. “If you haven’t heard of me, read the bio. Otherwise, flip to page nineteen hundred and eleven.”
I tossed open the book and saw a lot of spells I already recognized, but in each case, it was obvious she’d just changed one or two things and then renamed the spell after herself. It seemed like kind of a pompous thing to do, but witches and warlocks do that sort of stuff ALL THE TIME. I doubted she had invented a single spell in that book, but the “famous” Professor Irae acted like she’d conjured each one out of thin air.
“To celebrate our first day of class, we’re going to learn a completely novel spell,” she said. “It’s called Irae’s Instant Incantation of Boot Lacing. Once you learn it, you’ll never need to tie your boots again! And if you say it backward, you can untie them too!” She seemed pretty excited about the spell, but in all honesty, it was just as lame as every other enchantment we’d already been taught. I think there’s another incantation, called Rotan’s Spell of Shoe Lacing, and I’m pretty sure we studied Snake’s Ultimate Lace Fastener last year. But we had to pretend like HER spell was a totally new and interesting enchantment. Personally, I felt like standing up and walking right out of the classroom. I didn’t have time for this. I needed to learn how to make the heavens thunder and the stars fall from the sky. I wanted to learn magic that would strike fear into the hearts of all.
And I wasn’t going to learn THAT in Remedial Spell Casting, so I ignored the professor’s lesson. Instead, I started thinking about how I might attract that army of followers. But I’d barely slept a wink last night, so I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, a finger tapped my shoulder. “No dozing in class, Wick,” my professor snapped.
Not wanting to get in MORE trouble, I straightened up, put my plans aside, and gave the boot spell a try. Even though I’d napped through most of the lesson, I guessed I could still cast the incantation. How different could it be from Rotan’s and Snake’s versions? The words were also clearly written in my spell book and there were comic illustrations that showed how to move my hands. I couldn’t help but notice Professor Irae was in ALL the pictures and even the spell words had her name in them.
I spoke the incantation, “Irae’s incantus tied roundicus,” then I moved on to the hand gestures. But I had to admit, they were a little complicated. Professor Irae must have been really into needlework or weaving. First I had to interlace my fingers into something called an elven knot, followed by a diagonal lock, then a weave she titled the goblin lace. But it was okay—I had pictures. Or at least I did until witch-in-training Tempest Shadowood walked by, stumbled into my desk, and knocked the spell book to the floor. She was more of a klutz than Galorian.
That’s when I threw up my hands in a fit of fury. But apparently, that was a REALLY bad thing to do. I later learned that the hands-thrown-up gesture was actually the second to last component of a different yet similar spell, Irae’s Heinous Hog-Tying Hex.
All of a sudden, a rope magically appeared in the air. In a panic, I looked to Professor Irae for help, but evidently, that was also the wrong thing to do. As soon as our eyes met, the spell was cast and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Now, obviously, hog-tying is a practice meant entirely for hogs and other livestock. I’m pretty sure it’s not permitted at Nightshadows, and it’s definitely not allowed on our instructors. Clearly, I’d done something pretty bad. But it wasn’t my fault! I didn’t have time to worry about things like sleep or shoe-tying spells. Operation Dark Lord was my top priority. Unfortunately, my professor felt differently.
Dies Irae was filled with what can only be described as IRE.* Luckily, the knots left her hands untied so she was able to say a quick incantation, wave her fingers, and free herself. As soon as she was out of the ropes, Professor Irae let forth a terrible curse. She wished me three centuries of rotten luck, which seemed like a lot, considering that I would probably only live for another seventy or so years (assuming I survived that wall of flame). And after THAT, she turned me into a three-headed orc for the rest of the class, which was kind of a relief, because I’d been almost certain she was going to turn me into one of those spiny lumpsuckers for the remainder of the term, and I knew I’d never live that one down.
TOMBSDAY
After school today, Gorey requested Operation Dark Lord’s first “status report.” I’d spent the last two days thinking about my plan nonstop. But even though I hadn’t listened to a thing my teachers said all week, the operation was still a little short on details.
“I’ve got a name,” I said. “I’m calling it Operation Dark Lord.” I waited for a compliment or some sort of feedback, but the general didn’t seem impressed.
Gorey slammed his hammer-sized fist on the feast table so hard he made his hellhounds whimper. “I don’t care about the name, boy. And even if I did, military plans have real names like Operation Bog Storm or Mission Maggot Food. Move on! I want details. And I want them tomorrow or I’ll make you lick clean the latrines and scrape the fire dung from the dragons’ den.”
It’s difficult to argue with that sort of aggression, but I gave it a shot anyway. “It takes time to make a decent plan, Gorey. I don’t have much in the way of magical skills, and I’m obviously not a muscle head. I’m going to need to be creative—really creative,” I said, but the general wasn’t having it.
“The orcs are keeping the elves at bay. I sent a hundred to Hadrian’s Hedge yesterday, and two hundred more are headed out today. We’re holding the line, but it won’t last forever. They say the new elf lord is a powerful wizard and he’s leading their push through the vines, using potent spells to turn those nasty thorns into dandelions.”
That was news to me. And once again
, it wasn’t exactly the kind of news I wanted to hear. I’d hoped he’d say something along the lines of “the elves ran in disgust at the stench of the approaching orc army,” but maybe the wind was blowing the wrong way.
I wanted to tell him that I’d missed lessons and bungled spells, that I was working on my plan, but having a military commander as your guardian doesn’t allow for a lot of deep, meaningful conversation. We don’t have “heart-to-heart” chats, and we definitely don’t toss around salamander skulls like the rest of the grimmies do with their dads. Life is one big battle for him, or so he says.
In truth, war is all he knows. And the only thing he ever raised was a pair of fearsome fang-toothed hellhounds named Rainbow and Sunshine.* In fact, I think he sometimes confuses me with the dogs. The bowl I eat from looks suspiciously like theirs.
Actually, Gorey himself eats from one of those bowls, and I don’t think it bothers him one bit. When he finished describing the most recent elf attack, he dug into his soup, and so did the dogs. So I gathered that our conversation was finished.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m busy fighting the elves, Wick. I can’t fight your battles, too. And besides, your father told me not to help you. So if you can’t come up with a plan by yourself, venture off to the library and find inspiration from some other Dark Lord,” he growled before returning to his soup. It was eel soup, by the way, which is the only dish Gorey knows how to cook. I’ve had my share of it over the years, so I was happy to skip my evening feast and head over to our library.
When Gorey wasn’t lecturing me about all the GREAT THINGS my dad did, he sent me to study the GREAT THINGS the other Dark Lords did. According to him, I needed to complete the One Thousand and Eleven Year History of the Dark Lords before I finished my schooling. That might not sound like a difficult task, but the series includes 712 dense, nine-hundred-page volumes. Apparently Dark Lords like to talk about themselves. Go figure.
If Dad had written his history, I’d have read it cover to cover a dozen times over. But he never took the time to write down his life story, and I guess it ended before he had the chance to hire a grim biographer or one of those ghostwriters people are always talking about. My dad didn’t have a book in the collection, so I couldn’t imagine any of the knowledge I was after was in them. After all, he was the youngest warlock to ever take the throne, and what I needed to know was how he found his magic at such a young age. I’ve tried to find answers. I really have. I’ve asked every witch and warlock in the castle about my dad, but they all say the same thing: The Dark Lord kept the source of his magic secret. I even asked Garandash, the castle’s high warlock, but he only shook his head in response.
So, instead of reading the Dark Lord biographies, I just moved my bookmark forward a hundred pages (to make it look like I’d read a few chapters) and slipped out the library window—like I always do. Gorey thinks I’m on volume 300, page 789, but I haven’t even started the series.
I felt a hint of guilt as I walked across the courtyard. I knew Gorey had my best interests at heart. I just didn’t think a book could really help my plan. Hopefully, my friends would prove useful instead.
I found Oggy waiting for me in our usual spot at the dungeon gates. But before I could dive into Operation Dark Lord, I noticed he was frowning like a fairy who’d had his wings clipped.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Oggy patted his empty pocket. “I think I lost the gremlin in Basic Bashing. We were running around, smashing bales of hay. I didn’t notice he was gone until after class. I tried to look for him, but . . .” Oggy was too distraught to continue. He was most likely picturing an ogre stepping on the gremlin or some other hideous death. Though he’d lost more tiny monsters than I could count, each one seemed to hurt him as much as the last.
“Let’s go find you a new little creature,” I said, knowing that Oggy would be of no use to the operation until we’d found him a new pet or at least made some effort to locate one. So we headed down the dungeon steps.
“You’ve probably heard about what happened with the Brute List,” I said, and Oggy nodded. “Well, I’ve sort of got this additional complication.”
“Oh yeah? What’s Gorey threatening now?” asked Oggy.
“He’s not really the threat,” I said. Then I went on to tell him about the elf lord and the attack on the hedge. Of course, Oggy knew nothing about it. So I told him the whole story. Then I explained how I needed to bump up my timeline and march on the chamber about twenty years earlier than I’d hoped. “Yeah, so I just need an army of followers. You know, a legion of thugs who can fight their way to the most dangerous place in the Known World. Any thoughts on that?”
“I mean, I could probably follow you, and I bet Hal might give it a go—should we ask him?” said Oggy, plain faced and serious. We’d reached the first level of the dungeon, so Oggy started turning over rocks, looking for little monsters as we talked.
“I was pretty much counting on the two of you,” I said, picking up a stone, trying to help Oggy in his search. “I’ve already included you guys,” I reminded him. “It’s the three or four hundred OTHERS that I’m worried about. When you can’t call down a thousand-foot-tall column of flame, it’s kind of a challenge to unite the grim folk. I think I’m going to have to be creative . . . you know, if I want to live up to Dad’s legacy and all that.”
“Have you talked to Garandash?” asked Oggy. He cleared a cluster of mushrooms, searching for lost monsters.
“No. He always gives me the runaround. I don’t think he likes me. Or maybe he’s got orders not to help me.”
“Oh yeah, I always forget about that one. ‘Don’t help Wick,’ that’s what the general told everyone. ‘He’s got to earn his throne!’” Oggy mimed the general, raising his fist into the air, imitating Gorey’s gruff voice.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That might not be it. I think Garandash doesn’t WANT to help me. It’s like he’s jealous that I get the first crack at the Chamber of Mystery. He’s probably hoping the cyclops will tear me to bits or that wall of flame will light me up like a match. Maybe he wants to take his chances with the quest—it’s possible, right?”
Oggy shook his head. “I don’t know. With that python of a beard he carries around, I don’t think he’d do any better with the flames than you would.”
“Good point. But we’re getting off track. I need to move forward with MY plan. Do you have any ideas for the operation?” I asked. “The general is going to make me shovel fire dung if I don’t come up with something. Maybe we should just ask Hal—”
“We can’t,” said Oggy.
“Sleeping?” I asked. We headed down another flight of steps as we talked. Perhaps we’d find some lost little creature on a lower level of the dungeon.
Oggy nodded his head and followed behind me. “I just remembered. I went down to his lair earlier today, and he was out cold.”
Of course, waking a sleeping dragon is probably the best way to get turned into a crisp slice of wizard toast. Dragons are not a forgiving bunch, and they value their naps as much as their gold. Hal could not be bothered, which was a bit of a setback. That dragon was over four hundred years old, so he knew a thing or two about the world and had seen more than one Dark Lord come and go.
“C’mon, Oggy,” I said, desperate to wring some other ideas from my friend. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know. I mean, after the Brute List and that business with Professor Irae, I think it’s going to be hard to get the grimmies to follow you. Maybe you could gather a band of fairies?”
I didn’t think a bunch of pinkie-sized pixie types would make a very good army. “Anything else?”
“Leprechauns?” he asked.
“Too small. The army needs to be truly fearsome,” I said.
“Gnomes?”
“Too cute,” I said.
“Too troublesome.”
“Elves?” Oggy ventured.
“No, those are the guys who are attacking us—remember?” I could see this was going nowhere fast, and despite our searching, we still hadn’t found a monster to replace the gremlin. I was due at the tower, and I still didn’t have a plan. So we headed back up the steps, and I prepared myself for the inevitable disappointment of the general.
WORMSDAY
Day three of Operation Dark Lord had arrived, and I still didn’t have a plan. In fact, the whole thing was turning out to be pretty much a wash. School was no help, and Oggy was fresh out of ideas. Gorey was expecting my next “status report,” and I had nothing to say. So I decided to switch tactics. I had an idea that might trick the general into helping me. Over morning feast, I asked if he could appoint me to a high-level position in the castle. You know, something that could give me leadership experience. The kind I’d need to gather a horde.
And as the son of the Dark Lord Who Vanished, I thought he’d name me the Keeper of the Fire Gargoyles or the Master of the Flaming Hellhounds. Either one would earn me the respect of more than a few grimmies. I mean, I was only asking for a job that was befitting of the guy who would one day rule the grim world. I was almost sure he’d make me the Tamer of Basilisks or the Guardian of the Fountains of Flame.
But Gorey didn’t offer me any of THOSE. “The gong farmer quit,” he said. “You can start today if you want.” I assumed the job had something to do with those big metal circles the orcs hit with mallets and called music, but boy, was I wrong.
That’s right. Gorey said gong farmers shovel cow poop, which means they’re covered in dung and they spend most of their day stepping in it. This was definitely not what I’d expected. I didn’t think anyone would want to stand next to a gong farmer. They certainly wouldn’t follow one, so I asked what else was available.
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 3