“There’s a job at the knacker’s yard,” said the general. But when he explained that knackers strip the flesh from dead horses, I quickly declined. I’ve already mentioned my aversion to fire, but I think I need to add blood to that list. I don’t like to see it or smell it, which only happened once, and I almost fainted. Gorey knew as much, so he moved on to the next job.
“We also need a new ale conner,” he said. I shrugged. I hadn’t even heard of that one. So Gorey had to explain what an ale conner did. He said they test beer not by tasting it but by spilling it out on a bench and sitting in it. I thought he had to be pulling my leg, but the general NEVER jokes around. He was serious. Very serious. The conner pours the beer onto a wooden bench, sits in it, and waits until it dries out. If the ale conner’s pants stick to the bench, the ale’s bad. That’s it.
So if I took the job, I’d always be walking around looking like I’d wet my pants. Again, this new tactic was getting me nowhere.
I feared Gorey was on to me. He certainly wasn’t going to help me out. I told him I wanted to be the Master of Dragons or the Tamer of Basilisks, but the general laughed. Then he said I had to graduate from Nightshadows to do THOSE jobs. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have asked for a post in the first place. But it was too late. If I said I didn’t want the work, Gorey would accuse me of “making a retreat” or some other military nonsense. He’d say something like “your father would have taken that job in a second” just to make me feel like I wasn’t up to the task or suggest I didn’t have the dedication to be a Dark Lord. I didn’t want to look weak, so I was pretty much trapped. I had to take some sort of job. And after the three I’d already turned down, there was only one spot left on his list.
So Gorey named me the official castle tour guide, which is about as dumb as a job gets. Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was TRYING to make my life difficult.
THORNSDAY
Last night, I had a change of heart. The castle tour was all about the Dark Lord. If I played my cards right and slipped in a few words here and there about my dad—just to remind everyone that I was the heir to his throne—I could still turn this tour guide thing to my advantage. So I ignored my teachers and spent the school day studying for my first tour. Gorey gave me a scroll that told me pretty much everything I needed to do and say. I reviewed the various speeches, trying to make sure I’d get everything right. But I made a few adjustments to the program, just to make things a little more interesting. They were minor changes. I was almost certain they wouldn’t cause any trouble during the tour.
I met my first group of visitors right after school let out. When I arrived, I found two ogres, Mr. and Mrs. Thornsplinter, waiting in the courtyard. Then three goblin girls arrived—Chandra Darkling, Denira Blackthorn-Ratree, and Ophelia Nightshade. A young frost giant named Toesplitter was the last to join us.
With my group assembled, I was ready for a Dark Lord level performance, or so I hoped. I’d spent my whole life in the Grimhold. And my dad was the Dark Lord Who Vanished. Who better to share our dark and terrible history?
“Let’s start with a little geography,” I began. “The Grimhold has thirteen towers. One is home to our famed school, Nightshadows Central. The academy has two other schools. The frost giants attend Nightshadows North, which is north of here, and the dragons study at Nightshadows East,* which, not surprisingly, is east of here. Our school is located in the castle’s second tallest tower. The tallest houses the army in its upper chambers and the Dark Lord’s throne at its base. We also have thirteen caverns beneath the castle. So thirteen above and thirteen below. You get the picture. We’re in the courtyard, which is the flat part. And, if you can count to thirteen, you will note that all the towers are arranged around the court. There’s a wall that circles the towers, and the Gurgling Lake of Sulfur surrounds the castle. More to come on that one,” I said. Then I cleared my throat. “Time for some history. The Grimhold was built one thousand and eleven years ago by the first Dark Lord, a Mr. Insidious Sneak the Dreaded, also known as Sid the Dread. He was the first warlock to unite the grim folk into a single people.” I stopped. The rest of the story was pretty boring, so I decided to improvise. “We all know knights and wizards love quests. They like to ‘band together’ to ‘drive out the shadows’ and the grim folk that lurk within them. The faire folk are always going on ‘courageous’ journeys to destroy the ‘darkness’ and so forth. Appalling, I know. That’s why we needed a Dark Lord to fight back. RIGHT? Sid turned a bunch of senseless fiends into a respectable horde who could demand equal rights and fair treatment for monsters everywhere!”
When I was done speaking, the tourists clapped like I WAS the Dark Lord. In fact, they applauded like it was the first time they’d heard their history. Heck, maybe it was. Ogres aren’t exactly history buffs, and they don’t have very good memories. Most can’t remember what they did yesterday. Some don’t know what they did today. Occasionally, I had to stop the tour just to remind the ogres that we were ON a tour and they should be listening.
Fortunately, everyone was listening by the time I finished Sid’s story. And I was feeling pretty good about myself. I’d earned a short round of applause, and I’d even held the ogres’ attention for a brief period of time, which is pretty rare. Things were going well, so I decided to take a chance. In the past, the guides described the lake from inside the courtyard, but I thought it would be a little MORE interesting if the tourists got up close to see it with their own eyes. So we climbed to the top of the Grimhold’s wall, where my group could take in the true majesty of our Gurgling Lake of Sulfur.
“It’s yellow and bubbly,” I said. “Quite mysterious. And if you look closely, you’ll see the basilisks that stand guard on tiny islands around the lake.
“Basilisks* are classic Dark Lord stuff. They have eyes the color of hellfire. And if an elf, orc, or even an ANT makes eye contact with a basilisk, it turns them to stone,” I said. “Like a statue.”
Of course, that made the tourists pretty curious about them.
“Hey, what’s up with all those statues scattered around the lake on little islands?” a goblin asked.
“The statues were once people. Some were elves, others were dwarves or humans,” I replied.
“Yes, but what about the . . . positions? Why are they all posed like that?”
“Oh, that. Well, the basilisks have a sense of humor. It’s all in the timing, really. They’ll ignore you until you get close or they can see what you’re doing. They wait until your guard is down and your pants too—when you think no one is looking—and that’s when they . . . ”
I stopped. One of the goblins had mistakenly glanced at a basilisk and made eye contact. The girl was frozen solid, turned to stone, a marble statue caught in a somewhat unflattering pose.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s what they do.”
With one of my tourists turned into a statue, I suddenly understood why previous tour guides chose to describe the lake from the courtyard and not the wall. I should have followed my instructions, but you don’t get to be a Dark Lord without taking risks! I was in the mood for bold ideas. However, in the future, I think I’ll save that sort of thinking for my operation. I sensed a hint of panic among the tourists, so I tried to reassure them. “The warlocks have a spell that will turn her back into flesh and blood,” I said. “Seriously, it’s nothing to worry about.”
The goblin queen would cause all sorts of trouble if we didn’t reverse the magic, so I’d have to beg Gorey to ask Garandash to command one of the warlocks to undo the basilisk’s spell. The red-eyed monsters weren’t SUPPOSED to turn the grim folk to stone, but no one’s perfect.
I tried not to let the incident bother me. But once someone gets turned to stone, it’s kind of a downer, so everyone was pretty eager to get off the wall. Even I felt anxious about those basilisks, so I led my group down the stairs and back into the courtyard, where they could bear wi
tness to our next attraction, the Fountains of Flame.
Immediately, I sensed panic.
“Are we going to die?” asked a goblin.
“Are the fountains dangerous?” an ogre cried out.
“Seriously, are we going to die?” asked the other goblin.
“No, yes, and no. The fountains ARE dangerous. The Grimhold is a dangerous place. If any of you want safety, go west and visit the Elflands. I’ve heard they have a fountain of flowers,” I said.
After the basilisk incident, I figured I ought to be a bit more cautious. Gorey told me the last time a tour guide strayed too close to the fires, he . . . Well, let’s just say that’s how this job became available. And I’ve already mentioned my aversion to flame. So we walked to the opposite end of the courtyard.
“The Fountains of Flame are not just a grim decoration. They feed lava into the moat. And they’re essential to the castle’s defense. Impressive stuff!” I said, hoping for a little excitement from my group. But the goblins were still cowering in fear, and even at this distance, the heat from the fire was making our frost giant’s ice armor melt, so we left the fountains behind and headed inside.
As I’ve said, there are thirteen caverns beneath the Grimhold, all interconnected by bridges. First, we visited the Goblin Grotto, where these lanky folk fabricate mechanisms of every size and shape. Then we attempted to enter the Ol-Factory of the orcs, but the stench made my remaining goblin tourists gasp for air. So we ventured a little lower. I led them over the long and spindly bridges the trolls lived under and into the dank and bone-strewn caves where the ogres snoozed. We even took a peek at the witch and warlock alley. We peered in and saw ramshackle libraries, smoking cauldrons, and gaggles of chanting spell casters. But our group didn’t actually visit their little lane. By and large, the warlocks and their kin keep to themselves. They spend most of their time studying dark incantations. And a lot of them are really old and super crabby, and they LOVE turning the grim folk into weird animals just to amuse themselves. Screaming armadillos don’t leave tips, and they also don’t pay for tours, so I chose to steer clear of the witches and warlocks.
After passing by the alley, we climbed back up to the courtyard. We were supposed to stop by the orc barracks and the classrooms at Nightshadows. But those are boring. I wanted to finish with something dramatic and go out with a bang, so we headed straight to the throne room. It’s the place where Galorian and my dad fought their final battle. And it’s utterly malevolent.* Sheets of fire ring the throne, and it’s cut from shattered black glass. Like the Fountains of Flame, it’s not exactly safe for Wizard Kings or grimmies or anyone else.
The ogres moved to climb the jagged steps of the throne, but I quickly led them away from the heaps of broken glass. I’d lost enough tourists for one day, so I changed my mind about the throne and nudged the group toward something safer.
Beside the throne were four glass cases that held my dad’s infamous cloaks. In the summer the Dark Lord wore a cape of flame, in the fall a cloak of swirling embers, in winter a mantle of snow, and in spring a robe of smoke.
A few years back, I tried to paint a picture of how the Dark Lord looked when he wore the cape of flame. It was a history project and one of the few assignments I actually enjoyed doing. I got to spend extra time researching my dad, studying some older paintings to get his look just right. Everyone liked it, so my professor hung it on the throne room wall. I caught sight of it while the tourists were looking over the cloaks. Gorey had said the former tour guide found it useful, so I pointed it out to my group. The grim folk aren’t very imaginative—especially the ogres. They need pictures. Unfortunately, I think the painting might have been a little TOO convincing.
As soon as they saw the portrait, the ogres started to bow and the goblins saluted it. At first I hoped they were just showing an appreciation for my brushstrokes. But then Mr. and Mrs. Thornsplinter tried to shake hands with the Dark Lord painting, which basically confirmed everything I thought about ogres.
While the tourists were checking out my dad’s cloaks, it occurred to me that maybe I should get my own coat of flame. Then I remembered how smoke makes my eyes water. So I’m not exactly sure a cape of swirling embers would be a good idea.
I was still considering my wardrobe upgrade when I noticed that some of the tourists looked a little bored. I explained we were at the end of the tour and asked if they had any questions. Turned out the young frost giant was waiting to see my father’s scepter. But I told him it wasn’t going to happen. “We only bring out my dad’s staff on Dark Lord Day. The Scepter of Ultimate Darkness is the most powerful weapon in the Known World, and it’s imbued with my parents’ magic. So we kind of need to keep it safe. It’s stored in a vault and guarded by a giant manticore and two or three gorgons. Major, heavyweight monsters. Anything else?” I asked. “I could show you the gorgons, but they might turn you to stone, so I’m recommending we avoid them.”
Everyone nodded vigorously. Clearly, the goblin incident had been enough for them.
“Okay,” I said. “That pretty much wraps things up.”
We were done for the day, so the ogres wandered off. But the goblins stuck around to complain about their friend. I said I’d make certain she was turned back into flesh and bone. “I’ll also offer a partial refund,” I said. The goblin HAD missed the second half of the tour. But I don’t think they appreciated my generosity. They stormed off in a huff, and neither one of them left me a tip. Only the frost giant remained. He must have REALLY wanted to see the scepter and nothing else because the big guy asked for a full refund.
Actually, asked is not the right word. For accuracy’s sake, I should probably use a word like threatened or coerced.
Let me explain.
GIANTS are not called giants because they’re small. No. They earned their name, fair and square. In fact, they earned it twice over. Rather, make that four times, because that was the difference in height between the young frost giant and me. It’s also the number of times he dangled me over a pool of lava before I was able to fumble through my robe, find the coin he’d used to pay for the tour, and hand it back to him.
FIREDAY
The next morning, I woke when the wind blew open the shutters in my room. I immediately leapt out of bed and shut them. Now, I suppose in other places the wind isn’t anything to worry about. It blows the leaves and shakes the trees. But in our castle the wind blows MORE than leaves.
According to Andronica Dire and that scroll I use for my castle tour, the Grimhold is over a thousand years old. Which makes its bathrooms just as ancient. I’ve heard the more modern castles have something called plumbing, which involves a bunch of things called pipes. But we don’t have any of THAT. We have something older. Something a little more primitive. We have a hole.
Well, it’s actually a little more sophisticated than that. The hole is in a bench that hangs over the side of the tower. We call it a SKY TOILET. And that’s where the castle folk go to the bathroom. All the gross stuff falls through the opening and lands in the Gurgling Lake of Sulfur.
I know, it’s disgusting. And it gets WORSE.
Some of the towers in the Grimhold are tall. Very tall. And on a windy day, most of what falls from the sky toilets doesn’t land in the lake. Quite a bit gets swept up by the wind and lands in the courtyard. For this reason, it’s a bad idea to go out walking on a windy day. A very bad idea. You never know what you’re going to run into.
Today, the wind was howling through the Grimhold. And the teachers must have feared for their students’ safety, because they canceled recess. In its place, we stayed inside and Blackwood read aloud from History: Things That Happened in the Past. Bob Ogreson tore out the last hair on his head, rendering him completely rather than partially bald, and Pandora Boxwood raked her long nails against the chalkboard, sharpening them to resemble Professor Irae’s. The orcs grumbled about their teeth, and Blackwood sent th
ree or four of them to the infirmary. The grimmies were all in a rather GRIM mood. Grim even for us. Bored and restless.
And our lesson in Remedial Spell Casting only made things worse. Professor Irae taught us an enchantment that made paint dry just a LITTLE more quickly. It was called Irae’s Invocation of Evaporation, and she forced the entire class to watch the spell do its work.
So just to be clear, we actually watched paint dry. And each time Professor Irae attempted to point out some bit of it that was hardening, the “rain” would interrupt her midsentence. After a few minutes, even she got tired of hearing those things go SPLAT when they hit the window. No one was paying attention to the paint or to our professor. We all had our eyes on the window. And since she couldn’t turn the whole class into slime-spewing salamanders for not listening carefully, she dismissed us early. Professor Irae had been so flustered, she forgot to assign us DUNGEONWORK, or “homework” as the faire folk call it.
We left school, and the winds died down. Everyone was already in the courtyard, so I guessed their teachers must have also canceled class. With today’s blustery forecast, I didn’t have a tour scheduled. Apparently, one of those brown things once struck a tourist on the head during a tour, and that’s not something an orc or even a warlock wants to see. Or smell. Or taste, which is another story entirely.
I wasn’t hit by any “flying objects.” But suddenly there was a great crash. Then I heard Bob Ogreson and Rats Wormfinger yelling, “The elves are coming! They’ve broken the gates. The elves are attacking!”
My heart skipped a beat. Was it really happening? Right here and right now—just as Gorey had warned? Was the enemy at our gates? I hadn’t even started Operation Dark Lord yet! As you can plainly see, I was still in the “planning stages.” I needed more time! Maybe a week? A month?
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 4