Confessions of a Dork Lord

by Mike Johnston

  Actually, he wasn’t a guy. He was a dragon.

  MOANDAY

  The dragon’s lair is buried in one of the Grimhold’s lowest levels. After school, I met Oggy in our usual spot, and we headed down the dungeon steps. We passed the Goblin Grotto, the Ol-Factory, and the Troll Trails. We made certain to be quiet as we tiptoed past the Alley of Alterations. The witches were taking turns transforming every passerby into a cloud. Oggy thought they were testing some new spell, but I guessed they were just bored. We kept our heads low and our bodies out of sight. As we rounded one tight corner, a cloud of green gas drifted right past me followed by a fog of floating frogs and what looked a mist of miniature unicorns.

  I don’t think they spotted us, because we made it down the steps without floating away in a haze of bouncing boggarts.

  “I heard about the machine room incident,” Oggy said when we were finally clear of the alley. “I assume Gorey laid out the usual threats?”

  “Yeah, something about ogre dung. It’s not important. I’m looking to restart the operation,” I said as we made our way down the dungeon steps. “Maybe Hal will have some ideas. I need a new direction, or really just any direction at all—that would be helpful. Last week was pretty much a total disaster, and this one’s not going to be any better unless I make some sort of change,” I said, and just then we reached the lair.

  Immediately, I fumbled for my noseplugs. Remember, Hal’s a dragon. But, unlike his scaly cousins, Halitosis (or Hal, as he likes to be called) doesn’t like to breathe fire. He prefers a different weapon. Actually, weapon might not be the right word. He just has really BAD breath. I mean really bad, evil, foul-smelling breath. Breath that can knock out a giant. Luckily, I found a way to block the stink: noseplugs. Picture earplugs, but for the nose.

  I made sure mine were snugly in place before I started walking. If one fell out, I’d probably pass out from the smell and then I’d never get anywhere with my plans. So I checked my noseplugs, took a deep breath, and went looking for the dragon.

  I found him sitting atop a pile of golden urns. “Greetings, grimmies, and welcome to the lair,” huffed the scaly dragon as he raised his great green maw.

  “Greetings,” I replied. Since they’re so ancient, dragons enjoy formalities. You have to be polite to them, so we usually talk about our health, the weather, and all that junk. But I had urgent matters to discuss, so I skipped the small talk. “The elves attacked the hedge,” I said, “and Gorey thinks there’s going to be a war.” I told him how I needed to follow in my dad’s footsteps a little sooner than I’d anticipated, then got him up to speed on the setbacks I’d experienced. I explained that I had a plan—well, actually, just a name for the plan. “It’s called Operation Dark Lord,” I said. “I need to gather my army of followers so I can head over to the chamber and claim the dark title, but the operation’s a little short on details. Any ideas?”

  I waited for his response, but like all dragons, he’s obsessed with himself. So instead of focusing on my problem, he just told me about all the cool stuff HE could do.

  “Well, perhaps you ought to follow in my footsteps—eh?” said the dragon. “I can recite the names and ages of all the stars in the sky. That’s noteworthy. And I know the entire history of the Known World—care to hear it? It’s equally extraordinary. And while we’re on the subject of hearing, I’m especially talented in that regard. My ears are amazing. If you say my name from the far side of the earth, I’ll hear it just as if you were standing next to me.”

  He listed about thirty different talents, but not all of them were that impressive. In fact, the last few were pretty run-of-the-mill.

  “I can blink my eyes so quickly that it seems like they were never closed,” he said, but I told him almost anyone could do that.

  “Well,” Hal said as he thought really hard. “I can SLEEP for months on end, years even. That’s remarkable—isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” I said. In fact, I thought that was pretty much the OPPOSITE of impressive. Sleeping in wasn’t going to get anyone excited about my leadership. But Hal just went on talking, even though Oggy was playing with the bottle imp and I was looking in the other direction, checking out his golden hoard of treasure. We must have looked really bored at that point because Hal stopped talking midsentence and gathered his face into the largest pout you’ve ever seen.

  Fortunately, Oggy’s good with monsters, large and small. So he knew what to do. “Hal,” he said, “tell us some of that history you memorized.”

  “What sort of history would you like to hear?” asked the dragon, still a bit pouty. “I know almost all of it. You’ll need to limit your scope of interest.”

  “Umm . . .” said Oggy, “maybe you could tell us about the Dark Lords.”

  “Which ones?” asked Hal. “I know about all of them. In the one thousand and eleven year history of the Dark Lords, we’ve had seventy-nine.”

  “Well”—I butted in to the conversation—“can you tell us about some of the Dark Lords who struggled at the job? Guys who were more like me, who had . . . you know . . . challenges?”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Hal. “You’re wondering if you’re the first grim fellow to make some titanic blunder. Well, you aren’t. In fact, that incident in the courtyard was nothing,” said Hal. “Wick, you aren’t the only Dark Lord to suffer a prank or deal with some bullies.”

  That one caught my attention, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Who’d mess with a Dark Lord?” I asked. “Name one example.”

  “Well,” Hal said, “I could speak for weeks on the subject, months even. I DO know the entire history of the Known World. So I’ll start with a good one. There was once a Dark Lord named Dante the Grim who was famous for ALMOST signing the first peace treaty with the faire folk. This was three hundred and eleven years, nineteen days, and seven hours ago, to be exact. And both sides were ready to sign the parchments. Everyone was seated at a grand table when Dante let loose a belch that blew the treaty papers off the table. As the orcs scrabbled to put the sheets back in order, Dante noticed the faire folks’ amusement with his gas.

  “The grim folk knew Dante was really self-conscious about his indigestion, but apparently the elves and wizards were pretty clueless when it came to his ‘insecurities.’ They all burst out in laughter. Dante didn’t laugh. He drew his wand and turned the faire folk into ash. As you might guess, that was the end of the peace treaty.

  “And Dante wasn’t the first Dark Lord to trip over his own two feet. Once, there was a Wizard King named Philanthropic Phil, who switched sides and became the Dark Lord Pernicious Phil. Apparently, Phil was a rather fickle fellow.* He was known for stopping in the middle of a meal and ordering a completely different dish. He’d dress in red velvet for the day, then decide he really needed silvery brocade just as he was about to address his people. So it was no surprise when he lost interest in his wizarding skills. Their magic IS rather tame. Even at the highest levels, they just learn to make trees grow taller and flowers blossom. Phil wanted to hurl lightning. So he hightailed it over to the dark lands, found his horde, and took the dark crown. The faire folk were so angry at him they attacked our castle. When Phil saw his old subjects marching against him, he must have lost his nerve, because he switched sides AGAIN and rejoined the faire folk. Then when the faire folk army attacked the Grimhold, the same thing happened. As it turned out, he couldn’t attack the grim folk either. I guess he thought those big goblin eyes were just too cute to bludgeon.

  “So he called off the battle. But at that point, both armies were so frustrated with Phil they decided to join forces and attack HIM. That was the end of his reign and the end of Phil.”

  Hal said Phil was also the last Wizard King to be lured to the grim side, seeing as how it didn’t go so well the first time. Then I made the mistake of asking if he had any more stories, and wouldn’t you know it, he did. He went on to talk for hours on end. He
told a story called “The Itch That Irritated an Emperor” and another he dubbed “The Dandruff That Doomed a Dark Lord.” I had to admit, it was all pretty hilarious, and nothing I’d done was HALF as dumb as anything in those stories. So I started to feel a little better about myself. Perhaps there was still some way for me to gather my horde of followers?

  Oggy had fallen asleep halfway through the last story, so I asked the dragon if he had any other ideas for Operation Dark Lord, but he just started listing his dragon talents again and then HE fell asleep.

  I was so frustrated I accidentally huffed and blew out both of my noseplugs. Fearing I’d pass out from the stink, I pinched my nose, woke Oggy, and we made a run for it out of the lair.

  TOMBSDAY

  I woke up feeling pretty good this morning, then I went to Nightshadows and all those happy feelings went away.

  It all started in history class. As I’ve mentioned, the failed warlock and occasional cryptogeometry instructor, Kravos Wormfinger, has a son, Rats. He was standing next to Bob during the elf incident, and I bet that whole prank was his idea. He’s got that ancestor who was a Dark Lord. An in-law, really, so they’re not even related. But Rats acts like he’s Dark Lord royalty or something.

  For instance, today we had our Dark Lord history exam, and Rats was the first to finish his test. “I know everything there is to know about the Dark Lords,” he said as he tossed his paper on Professor Blackwood’s desk. I didn’t know what his rush was—he’d only taken a minute or two to complete the exam. And he gave me an odd little wink when he put the paper down. He was up to something. When Rats got back to his seat, out of the corner of my eye I saw him whispering under his breath, and he was moving his fingers in little circles beneath his desk. I’m the future Dark Lord, so I know spell work when I see it. We should have had another twenty minutes to finish. Maybe more. But then the clock started to spin wildly in circles, and before I knew it, our time was up. That son of a banshee had used magic to turn twenty minutes into two seconds. Tempest looked confused, and Davos definitely sensed something was wrong, but they hadn’t seen the spell casting or the clock moving in mad circles. I had, so I told our professor that Rats had cheated, but Blackwood just scowled and threatened to make me write out the entire 1,011-year history of the Dark Lords if I didn’t study harder next time. After that one, my classmates didn’t dare complain.

  “Study . . . we must study,” mumbled Blackwood.

  I DID study. I knew the answers, I just didn’t have time to write them down.

  And it was all Rats’s fault. I bet his dad taught him that spell. Even a failed warlock like Wormfinger knows a few tricks, so I’m sure he’s passed them all down to Rats. It’s completely unfair.

  And to make matters worse, just after Blackwood gathered up everyone’s unfinished tests, Rats caught my eye and winked AGAIN, just so I’d know he was responsible. I nearly threw my history book at him—the thing was big enough to knock out an ogre—but the great and terrible bell rang and Rats, like his namesake, scurried out of the room.

  I hurried after him. Remedial Spell Casting was our next class. I knew exactly where he was headed, and there was no way he could escape me. I was out for revenge, but when I walked into the classroom, he was already seated, with his head buried in his spell book. He sat right next to Professor Irae’s desk, so I didn’t dare go near him. Ever since the hog-tying incident, she’s had it out for me. I needed to be on my best behavior. If I clobbered Rats with her book, I’d probably get suspended. The little rat smirked at me as I sat down, and I scowled.

  “Today, class,” Professor Irae announced before Rats and I could exchange another round of foul facial expressions, “we will learn a completely unique charm I call Irae’s Wart Withering Incantation. You might be surprised to learn that it can remove any wart, bump, or hump.”

  Are you surprised? I wasn’t. The title pretty much said everything you needed to know about the spell. But since I didn’t have any warts, bumps, or humps to remove, I was paired with Tempest Shadowood. Goblins are known for their glorious collections of warts, as are the orcs. Actually, the ogres have a lot of bumps too, but there aren’t any ogres in my spell class. We did have two goblins, so Rats and I sat with them, and we all got down to work. I made certain to learn the words as well as the hand gestures before I even attempted the incantation. I couldn’t afford another incident.

  I took my own sweet time. And when I was ready, I said, “Bumpum eradicus Irae!” I was pretty sure I nailed it. Heck, it was only three words, and all I had to do to complete the spell was to snap two fingers simultaneously.

  I accidentally hit three. So instead of removing the wart from Tempest’s neck, I removed her ear. It was an honest mistake, but goblins are a vengeful lot. In return for what I thought was a bit of accidental finger snapping, Tempest let forth what could only be called a tempest of insults. Then she cast her own version of the spell I’d bungled. The goblin snapped four fingers, just to see what would happen, and made one of my eyes disappear. I’m not sure where it went, but I’m almost certain I looked like a cyclops.

  She did it again, and I lost a toe. I was so annoyed I cast the spell, and this time I took both hands and snapped ALL of my fingers. Only five or six hit, but it must have been enough, because the enchantment worked its magic. Her mouth vanished, which was kind of a relief. I was tired of her insults and her spells.

  Apparently, Professor Irae was tired of both of us. She didn’t believe in “creative” spell casting, and she definitely didn’t like it when I played around with her enchantments. After she undid all our incantations, she paused and I could tell she was deciding what to do with the two of us. She nodded her head, but slowly—like she was deep in thought. Adults always do that to let you know when they’re thinking really hard about something. But I already knew what she was planning to do. Professor Irae was going to turn me into some hideous creature. Witches and warlocks love that kind of stuff. But instead she just folded her arms and bared her gleaming white teeth.

  “This is your second offense, Wick!” she said. I guessed the “hog-tying incident” was my first. But this time I wasn’t the only one in trouble. “And you, Tempest,” said Irae, “you’ve just removed an eye and a toe. You two have committed multiple offenses, so you’re both in the same sinking boat as far as I’m concerned. Spell work is dangerous. There’s no room for shenanigans in this . . . well, room. You know what I mean. You both cast high-level spells, amputated an eye and an ear. These incantations are strictly prohibited to students of the sixth level. The rules are clear. I have no choice but to remove both of you from Remedial Spell Casting for the remainder of the term.”

  That one hit me like a ton of ogre dung. I wanted more than anything to master the dark and terrible art of magic, and I was already behind on my casting. With this setback, I’d never catch up to the other students.

  In my desperation, I tried to make peace with Professor Irae. If my dad had granted me some title or authority, I could have ordered her to do it, but I was as powerless as an average grimmie. And I knew Gorey would never help me. He’d want me to handle this on my own, so I begged her to let us do some independent study. I told her all about how I was interested in advanced magic. And I thought she could help me out.

  “I love your book,” I said. “The illustrations are just so . . . original! I mean, who would have thought to put their own picture on every page? And the names are marvelous too. We’ll never forget who invented YOUR spells.” I went on about her long nails and even longer book. I also said something about the whole future Dark Lord thing and how it might be important to the survival of the grim folk for me to learn some magic. “If you help me out, you might even become a part of Dark Lord history. I can say, ‘This is where it all started. Professor Irae was the one who taught me the magic that made me a Dark Lord.’ I’ve already got an autobiography of sorts, so it won’t be much trouble to cram you into it.”
I even mentioned my dad and said he would have approved of it. He was always ahead on HIS study of the dark arts, and I definitely needed to catch up on mine.

  Now, teachers are supposed to encourage students to learn and all that stuff, but none of that is true. They just want us to sit quietly, and I’m not very good at that. She said I wasn’t ready to learn “grown-up magic” and that maybe I should hold off on spell casting until I was a little more “mature.”

  That one clobbered me like a second load of ogre dung. I’d made a pretty good speech, and she’d totally ignored it. I nearly fainted when she told me I was too immature for incantations. Heck, I could almost feel the tears coming to my eyes. And I didn’t want anyone to see THAT, especially Rats. So I cut school and went home early. Luckily Gorey wasn’t around, so I didn’t have to explain my “strategic setback.”

  But I was home early, and I had nothing else to do. As always, I was supposed to read the Dark Lord histories. So I wandered into our library and removed one of the black leather tomes from the shelf. I was still thinking about Professor Irae and what she’d said when I flipped to an illustrated page. The portrait of the Dark Lord Abominous Woe flashed before my eyes. He was casting the Spell of Wasting on the Elflands, making the Forest of Flowers turn to dust and the Lovelier Wood to charcoal. It was powerful stuff, and even though I hadn’t actually read the book, it reminded me that every Dark Lord had earned his name through astonishing displays of magic. And here I was, banned from Remedial Spell Casting.

  In that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do. I mean, I’m the future Dark Lord. And great leaders don’t wait around for destiny. It was time to take matters into my own hands. If I was ever going to gather my army of followers and walk through that wall of flame, I needed to learn some real magic. And I’m NOT talking about the silly charms we study in school. I’d need HIGH-LEVEL spells. The stuff my dad wielded. I’m the son of the Dark Lord. I was meant for greater things, but I wasn’t going to achieve them by sitting through classes at Nightshadows. Warlocks have written down their enchantments for thousands of years. So if no one was willing to teach me the magic I needed to learn, I’d do it myself. It was time for me to study some deadly, earth-shattering incantations—the stuff Professor Irae wouldn’t teach me, the magic she wasn’t ALLOWED to teach me. And I knew exactly where to find it.