But then something clicked inside me. This was my moment—my chance to show my skills as a leader. Finally I’d found a way to jump-start Operation Dark Lord. If I took charge of the castle defenses and everyone saw me do it, they’d know I was the real deal—a warlock they could follow to the ends of the earth.
So I mustered all my courage and cried, “Ring the bell! Crank up the Fountains of Flame! Open the moat of lava! And close the kitchen door!”
I said a bunch of stuff like that, and—WHOOSH—the bell rang, the Fountains of Flame rose up into the sky, and the lava flowed into the moat. It felt amazing! I was in charge of everyone. The orc captains rallied the orc guards. The orc guards summoned the hellhounds. The gargoyles flew in circles around the castle, and the basilisks readied their glowing eyes. This was the moment I’d waited for. The real start of Operation Dark Lord.
The courtyard was buzzing with activity. Soldiers packed the walls. And I waited for the assault to begin. I stood ready, eyes trained on the castle’s iron gates.
I listened for the clank of swords and armor. I waited for the arrows to rain down from the sky.
But no army approached. No soldiers. No elves. And definitely no war.
Then I heard something far worse than the sound of an elf army: LAUGHTER. A goblin snickered, an orc chuckled, and a bunch of ogres guffawed.
That’s when I knew they had me.
It was all a PRANK.
Everyone was laughing. So I started too. And for a moment, I thought I could fool everyone. “It’s okay. We do this all the time,” I said. “It’s just a drill. Practice makes perfect. Everyone back to your posts.”
But even the orcs didn’t buy that one.
“Halt everything!” A cry rang out from somewhere in the courtyard. Gorey had just thrown open the door to our tower. He was an actual general and the regent of the Dark Lord’s realm, so he took this stuff pretty seriously. He shouted, “Close the lava hatches, turn down those fountains, and tell that ogre to stop ringing the bell! Who’s the fool who caused all this trouble?”
My face must have turned pale white, because I heard a second round of chuckles, which probably made Gorey even angrier. I’m supposed to be the next Dark Lord, not the Dork Lord. He expects me to be smart and strong, a natural leader. And I am smart, but even the best of us makes the occasional mistake . . .
I tried to explain myself, but I just ended up sounding weak. And Gorey reminded me that leaders don’t make excuses. Also, Gorey knew about the REAL elf attacks. So this was no laughing matter.
“The threat’s out there,” he said. “And you need to be ready when it arrives. You’ve got to earn their respect!”
I knew that, and I didn’t need Gorey to shout it out in front of the grimmies. I was supposed to earn followers, not hecklers. What was he thinking? Operation Dark Lord was practically at a dead end already. No, forget that. I’d utterly humiliated myself. I was finished.
SADDERDAY
I played sick today. I hadn’t even started Operation Dark Lord, and I’d already suffered more setbacks than I could count. So I stayed in bed and sniffled. I groaned a bit and wrapped the sheets around me, which is what a sick person always does. I put on a good show. But just after I’d finished a long fit of sneezing and sniffling, Gorey thundered into the room and told me he needed to see some “boots on the ground.” He said a “failed mission” was no reason to “surrender.” Then he ordered me to provide the “details” of my upcoming operation, at which point I had to admit that I was fresh out of ideas. In truth, I was hoping to just hide from the world. But he sent his hounds into the room, which forced me to immediately recover from my “cold.”
I got out of bed and threw on my warlock robe. Cold and miserable, I sat down for morning feast. I’d made a complete fool of myself in the courtyard yesterday. But I’d also made a fool of myself last Sadderday and pretty much every day since then. Honestly, I had to wonder if this was how my life was supposed to end up. Was this really what Dad wanted for me? Was this the life my parents planned? I doubted it.
If Mom and Dad were around, I can’t help but think things might be a little different. Dad would be able to show me the secret to his magic. I’m sure Mom would make certain I ate something other than eel. I bet I’d have a few of those “special privileges” Gorey denies me. And the grimmies would have to call me Junior Dark Lord or something like that.
I’ll never really know what my life would have been like if they’d lived. My parents are gone. Everyone tells me they’re out there. “They put their essence in the scepter!” That’s what Gorey always says, so I know their spirits exist. But I don’t really know what that means. I’ve never met them. Even if they were just a cloud of smoke, I wouldn’t mind meeting that cloud. I’ve asked the warlocks if Mom and Dad can be summoned, but the spell casters don’t have a clue. I’ve tried calling out to my parents too, but they’ve never answered.
As far as I know, I’m on my own.
So I finished my eel soup, gathered up my books, and went to school. That’s right, the grim folk go to school on Sadderday. How do you think the day got its name?
I attended Grim History and a lecture on nail-polishing spells by Dies Irae. We learned how to cast Irae’s Magical Manicure. Things were quiet. No one said a peep about the “elf attack.”
Had everyone forgotten about it?
As I’ve said, ogres don’t exactly have the best memories. For all I knew, that prank could have been ancient history—or at least that’s what I hoped.
At midday feast, I sat down by Oggy. “So let’s talk about that incident in the courtyard,” I said, but I could tell Oggy wasn’t listening. At long last, he’d found a new little friend.
“What is it?” I asked without even looking at the thing.
“Oh, it’s an imp . . . a bottle imp. You know, because he lives in a bottle,” Oggy said.
“Got that . . .” Having acknowledged the little guy, I hoped to turn the conversation toward Operation Dark Lord and yesterday’s disaster in the courtyard, but Oggy wouldn’t let up with the imp thing.
“So yeah, he likes all sorts of bottles, big and small, you know. But I found him a warlock’s decanter, and he seems to REALLY like it.” Oggy went on to list the various types of bottles he’d offered the imp. I think he was trying to bond or something. Or maybe he just wanted to take my mind off that “elf attack.” But the imp was just chewing away at a piece of moldy bread, which was exactly what I was doing. So I found it kind of difficult to share Oggy’s enthusiasm.
I went back to my midday feast, and I was about to dig my knife into some mutton when someone hooted, “Dork Lord!”
Oggy and I both looked at each other. Neither of us said a word. Even the imp bit his lip. A moment passed.
I thought if I ignored the insult, the grimmie might not say it again. But sure enough, a minute or two later, a pair of ogres hollered, “Dork Lord! Dork Lord!” And after that about a dozen orcs joined the chorus. The goblins must have been feeling bold, because even they gave it a shot. Pretty soon everyone except Oggy and the imp was chanting, “Dork Lord.” And amid all that racket, Bob Ogreson hollered, “The elves are coming!! Save us, Wick! The elves are attacking!!”
I wished they WOULD come. Maybe Bob could be their first VICTIM.
The room erupted into laughter. I looked to Oggy for assistance, but he just gave me one of those sad, comforting stares—the kind you gave to a grimmie when his pet bat died.
Oggy’s a big guy. He could probably have clobbered half the folks in the feast hall if he wanted to, but he doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Seriously, it’s a problem. His mom expects him to be a soldier someday, but I doubt he’d be willing to squash one of those limping lice if his life depended on it.
As for me, I’m not cut out for confrontation. I prefer to issue orders and watch others do the hard work. But since I didn
’t have anyone to order around, I laid down my knife and slipped out of the hall with Oggy and the imp following close behind.
We took our time on the school stairs while Oggy explained Operation Dark Lord to the imp. I asked the little guy if he’d be willing to join my army, but he said he’d have to pass. Apparently, bottle imps don’t go on adventures because if their glass breaks in the wilderness, they’re pretty much out of luck until they get back to civilization.
Some time around then, the great and terrible bell rang. So Oggy and the imp went off to pleasant pillaging while I headed up the stairs to cryptogeometry, which is really just a fancy name for math class. Believe it or not, higher-level spells make you trace ridiculously complex shapes like that pentagrammic thing.
This kind of geometry is used in ensnarement spells, and if you don’t draw out the lines perfectly, the knight you’re trying to trap can break the enchantment and cut you in two. So we start our studies early.
Our professor is Rats’s dad, Kravos Wormfinger. He’s a warlock, but you wouldn’t know it if you saw him. He doesn’t have a long white beard or a fancy black robe like most warlocks you might know. I figured out a long time ago that he must not be a very good spell caster. If he had any talent, he would be our magical arts lecturer. But they don’t even let him teach the remedial spells, stuff like the Fart Revealer. Instead, he teaches us mathematics, which is pretty much the opposite of magic. Still, he’s always going on about the magical qualities of geometry, but I don’t think anyone buys it.
In class today, Professor Wormfinger said, “I’m splitting the class into two magnificently magical groups, high and low, based on your skills.”
Exactly what I didn’t need. I already felt like an outsider. And the class was still whispering, “The Dork Lord is panicking! The elves are attacking!” Things were bad, but then Wormfinger went and made my life a GAZILLION times worse.
He said, “I want all the orcs and ogres and goblins in the LOW math group, and you, Wick, you’re in the high math group.”
That’s right, he placed me in a math group of one. Wick, the kid who almost burned down the castle. The boy who thought the elves had attacked.
For maybe two seconds, I thought things were okay. I mean, I am the son of the Dark Lord Who Vanished. Maybe I SHOULD be in my own group. Then I looked at the rest of the class and I saw they didn’t exactly have the same idea.
Bob in particular was angry. I’m not even sure why he enrolled in cryptogeometry. He’s not a warlock. Maybe he just got lost and wandered into the room? Who knows.
But lately he’d gotten it into his head that he was good at math. Of course, it was all just a mistake. I think. Something to do with his penmanship. I once saw his test sheet, and the handwriting was impossible to read. So I figured Wormfinger didn’t even bother to grade Bob’s tests. He’s not the most motivated warlock. Most of the time, he’s downright lazy. I bet he just marks half the answers right and the other half wrong, which is why Bob almost always gets a fifty percent score on his tests.
Now, by faire folk standards, fifty percent is a low score, but for the grimmies, it’s pretty high. Phenomenal, even. In general, the goblins test well, but the orcs average twenty or maybe thirty percent on most tests—the ogres even less. Bob’s fifty percent scores made him seem like a grim folk math GENIUS.
So no one was more surprised than Bob to find himself in the low math group. When an eight-foot-tall, twelve-year-old, one-ton ogre discovers that he isn’t a genius, things can get ugly pretty quickly.
The moment our class ended, Wormfinger hurried out of the room. And as soon as he was gone, Bob tried to smack me on the head. But he missed completely and hit his fist on my desk. His aim was as good as his math scores. And today he earned another fifty percent. Bob hit me dead center on the second try.
SULLENDAY
All in all, the first week of school had been a complete disaster. I’d managed to offend at least one professor and convince most of the school that I was a total idiot, which had basically ruined any chance I had at getting Operation Dark Lord started. Gorey was probably thinking along those lines when he flung open my bedroom door and threw out a string of curses that would have made even the vilest warlock blush. In addition to all my other blunders, he’d just heard about the goblin tourist who was turned to stone on my watch. We needed a high-level warlock to change the goblin back into flesh and blood. But Gorey hated asking the warlocks for favors. They usually insisted on lecturing him about the complexities of magic. And that kind of stuff always got on his nerves. So even though it was my day off, the general didn’t think twice about doling out some punishment and assigned me to “wash duty.”
“Head down to the machine rooms. I need you to root out an infestation of fire ants. And while you’re at it, pry those groaning grub worms from the gears. They’re clogging up the works,” he grumbled.
Whenever Gorey actually wanted to punish me, he ordered me to work in some obscure part of the castle, like the tunnels beneath the courtyard or the machine rooms. If anyone caught me on wash duty, I’d never earn the respect I needed to raise my army of followers. So he sent me to the dungeons.
“Try to picture what your dad might have done in the courtyard,” he said as I made my way out the door. “The Dark Lord never panicked in an attack. He made a plan before he even raised his scepter. No army ever surprised your father. Wrap your head around that, Wick! And work on your operation. Time’s running out! I’ll need your plan of attack by day’s end.”
I wanted to correct him—I did have a plan. It was just a little short on details, but I was almost certain I’d think of something brilliant sooner or later. After all, I had the whole day to consider the operation as I did my chores.
Unfortunately, the machine room was a total mess. It hadn’t been cleaned in ages. And there was only one torch in the room, so I could barely see what I was doing. Given the state of the place, I realized I wouldn’t have much time to work on my plan.
I started at one corner and tried to make my way across the room, sweeping away ants and poking at grub worms. But the whole thing turned out to be slightly more involved than I’d anticipated. Gorey forgot to mention that fire ants actually BREATHE tiny streams of fire, and those groaning grub worms had somehow glued themselves to the gears. By the time midday feast rolled around, I’d barely cleaned the first machine.
I was feeling pretty frustrated at that point. I’d been trying to pry loose a grub, but he wouldn’t budge, so I jammed my broom into the machine. I guess I hit it pretty hard, because the whole thing sprang to life. Gears whirled and cogs cogged—or whatever it is they do. The whole thing started spinning, and that grub jumped right on top of me to avoid being squashed by the gears.
That’s when I heard the door open. The spinning gears must have triggered the drawbridge or one of the trapdoors in the courtyard. Someone had obviously sent one of the grimmies down into the machine room to see what had happened. And that grimmie must have seen me and figured out what I was doing. The Dark Lord’s son scrubbing some old contraption? Who could resist checking that out?
Apparently, no one. Half the grimmies in the castle showed up to watch me sweep the ants. Bob cheered, “The warlock is cleaning!” Rats cried, “The Dork Lord is scrubbing!”
I’d messed up. Maybe I deserved a little heckling? I pretty much felt like a Dork Lord. So I did what any decent leader would do.
I ran.
Well, at least I wanted to run.
Instead, I did what I KNEW I had to do. I kicked a few levers and sent two or three machines whirling into action. The roar of the gears swallowed up the grimmies’ chants, and I put my head down and went back to work. I’d made a racket that could drown out a thunderstorm, or at least the cries of an angry mob. So the grimmies found something else to do, and I managed to dislodge a good number of grubs from the gears.
I was knee-deep in
their goo when Gorey showed up. He asked if I’d worked out the details of the operation, but I’d been too frazzled by all that jeering to even think about my plan. I just stuttered. “My big idea is . . .” I began. “I mean, the details are really detailed . . . I . . .” I had no answer.
Gorey was so angry he threatened to have me dunked in ogre dung. I think he actually considered it this time. He stood there, huffing, then he lowered his head and sighed. Despite his constant threats and the string of curses that flowed from his mouth, I suspected the old orc had a very small—almost imperceptible—soft spot. Gorey let me off the hook.
We walked back to the tower in relative silence, and the general served eel to the dogs. He offered me some, but I wasn’t hungry. I kept thinking about my plans and how they’d all gone terribly wrong. Did my dad go through this much trouble before he became the Dark Lord? I wished I knew. I wanted to be like him, but I knew almost nothing about his childhood or his life before he became the Dark Lord. I asked Gorey if he could tell me anything, but he was just a grimmie back then, so he couldn’t remember much. And he was an orc, so his most distant memory was probably what he had for dinner last week.
Still, after one or two more questions, he did a bit of head scratching and said, “Your dad always had a backup plan, even when he was young. He never let a strategic setback get in the way of his goals. When Galorian struck him down with that green and glowing sword, he still didn’t die. He had a plan. Think about that! If he can survive death, I think you can overcome a bit of heckling.”
He was right, of course. It was too early to give up on my dreams. In fact, that gave me an idea. I’d been so focused on myself for the last few days that I’d ignored the smartest, most knowledgeable guy I knew.
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 5