Confessions of a Dork Lord

by Mike Johnston

  WORMSDAY

  Today I sat through a particularly long lesson on the Dark Lords and the various kinds of armor they wore. It was followed by a cryptogeometry lesson that focused on dots and their magical properties. Wormfinger spent the entire class trying to explain their uses, which mainly involved periods at the ends of sentences and little points you can draw in the air with your finger. At midday feast, I told Oggy to meet me at our usual spot when classes let out. I didn’t dare discuss my plan at Nightshadows. Secrecy was everything.

  I sweated as I waited for him to appear at the dungeon gates. I’d forgotten that my school day was now an hour shorter due to my expulsion from Remedial Spell Casting. That hour passed like it was a year, and I almost exploded with eagerness when Oggy came stumbling into the courtyard.

  “So yeah.” I blurted out the words as soon as he was within earshot. “We’re going to break into the Archive of Malevolent Mysticism and steal some totally-illegal-high-level-completely-beyond-my-ability spells. And I sort of need your help.”

  Oggy’s knees shook, and his fingers trembled. I prayed he wouldn’t faint. He definitely wasn’t Dark Lord material, but he WAS a good friend. So—after exchanging several covert glances and at least three winks with the imp—he agreed to join me.

  I’d had my doubts about that imp, but the little guy had come through for me this time. Oggy was on the team. So we made the perilous journey into the archive.

  Actually, it was just next door, and it was fairly easy to enter, but that’s only because I had some inside information. A howling banshee guards the entry to the archive. And you have to say the right thing, or it’ll scream at you until every warlock in the grim world hears that monstrous cry. But Gorey accidentally told me the password last year.

  When we reached the tower entry, the banshee eyed me with suspicion, but I spoke the words: “Galorian’s bloody bits!” And we quietly slipped into the tower.

  From there on out, we had to be pretty careful. No one under sixteen is allowed inside the archive. Every spell in the tower is rated for age appropriateness. The incantation Rats used—to make time move more quickly—was probably classified MG-16 or something like that. MG stands for magic, and the numbers indicate the age you have to be to cast that spell. Adults LOVE to put ratings on things.

  Inside, the walls were lined with books, and every one of them had a rating. Thirteen floors ringed the tower, with tomes of every size and shape. Immediately, I headed up the stairs to the high-level spell stacks. I was looking to learn a really powerful enchantment, something rated MG-30 or above. The risky stuff. There was lots of that in the archive. And I knew every bit of it would impress the grimmies. If I could secretly memorize some ultra-high-level spells, I’d have no trouble following in my dad’s footsteps. It worked for him, so I had to trust it would work for me.

  Oggy was my lookout, and he promised to whistle if anyone approached. While he kept watch, I went looking for a good spell book. After a bit of searching, I found one called Evil Cooking by Sardonimous Leaf, but that didn’t seem right. Then I stumbled on another, titled Grim Gardening: Make the Worst out of Your Carrots by Garadon Winkletton. I didn’t even open it. I also found a whole shelf of love spell books. Want to Make an Orc Fancy You? by Angelica Amore. I don’t know who would waste time on boring stuff like that. As I passed a section on castle crushing, I glanced at a few titles, How to Twist Turrets and Make Those Towers Tumble, both by Nefaria Sin. If I tore down the Grimhold, I’d probably get in some pretty big trouble, so I skipped those and cut to the section on explosive weather.

  The sign was made of actual fire and it said, FIRESTORMS, CRAZY RAIN, AND OTHER STUFF THAT WILL GET YOU IN TROUBLE.

  As soon as those burning words came into view, I shivered a bit. I don’t like fire, and to make matters worse, the sign started shooting sparks and dripping embers when I came near it. Apparently, it was determined to keep me out. Once I walked closer, the flames doubled, then tripled in size. I was worried someone would notice the fireworks, but when I looked around, I saw that all the other signs were also doing crazy stuff. One made snow fall (TEMPERAMENTAL TEMPERATURE CHARMS) and another shot sparks of lightning (ELECTROPIC EVOCATIONS). A third had spiderwebs shooting out of it (ENTOMOLOGIC ENCHANTMENTS), and I wished I could have explored that section, but my dad had made fire his weapon of choice, so I had to go for the flaming sign. I put down my head, pushed away my fears, and leapt past the inferno. I thought my face might melt. But when I reached the far side, the fire vanished. Those effects—the heat and smoke—were just an illusion. This place was built by ancient and powerful warlocks, so every bit of it was filled with magic.

  Below the sign, I found a book called Weird Rain by Silus Crow (rated MG-38), and I started flipping through the pages. I had no idea how many kinds of crazy rain there were! There wasn’t just the usual Rain of Fire. There was a Rain of Monkeys and also a Rain of Umbrellas. Not sure how THAT one would work.

  Just as I reached for another volume, a finger lightly tapped my shoulder. I closed my eyes and hoped it was Oggy. But he hadn’t whistled, and orcs don’t tap lightly.

  It was Professor Irae.

  She shook her head and pointed to the small print at the bottom of the sign. It said, NO ONE UNDER THIRTY PERMITTED. DANGEROUS MAGIC. EXTREMELY ENTERTAINING, BUT ULTIMATELY UNSAFE MAGIC. IT’S NOT FOR YOU. GO AWAY.

  I was totally busted, and so was Oggy, which really wasn’t fair. He was only the lookout, but it WAS against the rules for him to enter the archive. Oggy tried to make a break for it, but Professor Irae used her incantation to lace his boots together.

  I told her that Oggy was innocent, but she just shook her head and gave him an evil grin. He must have thought she was going to turn him into some hideous animal, because he panicked, fell, and twisted both of his ankles. Worst of all, he landed on the bottle imp, who was enjoying a cup of tea in his jar. The little guy was so upset that he stormed off at that very moment.

  The loss of his tiny friend must have been the last straw. Because Oggy’s big half-orc eyes went all shiny. I could tell my friend was trying to hold back the waterworks. He struggled. He fought. He failed.

  And he didn’t just cry. He wept. He totally fell apart, and it was all my fault. Oggy didn’t have to join me, but he did it anyway. He was a better friend than I deserved. I had two followers, and I’d just let one of them down (and nearly flattened a bottle imp). I felt rotten about the whole thing.

  Professor Irae was considerably more upset. This was the third time I’d crossed her, and I feared it was my last. She raised both hands and started waving her fingers. In a low voice, she chanted cruel and malevolent words. Then she cast the Spell of Obliteration, reducing Oggy and me to two tiny piles of soot.

  That’s right. We were ashes.

  Well, not really . . .

  THORNSDAY

  Professor Irae cast the Spell of Transvaporization, and I wound up back in my tower. I didn’t even have a chance to apologize to Oggy. I had to hold off until today to make amends. So I waited for him in the courtyard before school, but he didn’t show. At midday feast, I sat down at our usual spot. I figured this was my chance to apologize for his twisted ankles and the loss of that imp. I thought the two of us could go scrounging for little creatures after school today. I had it all planned out. We’d delve into the Goblin Grotto and search for bogeys, and if we didn’t find any of those, I knew a cave that led to the Haunted Hollows, where I was sure we could find one of those wily whelps or maybe even a walking weed.

  But when Oggy came into the feast hall, he limped right by me and sat down with two goblins, Raven Blackwing and Tempest Shadowood. I walked over to Oggy and asked him about his injury, but he just shook his head and looked the other way. I felt pretty stupid just standing there with no one talking to me. So I had to ask the goblins to find out what was wrong. Oggy told the goblins to tell me that after what happened at the archive, hi
s parents had forbidden him to hang out with me or speak to me. Oggy’s mom wanted him to be a soldier, so she expected strict discipline from her son. I shook my head at that one. Oggy could barely keep a gremlin from falling out of his pocket. Also, if his mom wanted her son to be a soldier, she probably ought to kiss up to me or at least offer me a little respect. I was supposed to be the next Dark Lord. I’d rule over the entire army when I took my throne. But maybe Oggy’s mom didn’t think I was up to the task, or in all likelihood, she just didn’t like that we’d broken the castle rules. Orcs are stubborn about that sort of stuff.

  While Raven explained the situation, Oggy pulled a gnome out of his pocket. Apparently, he already had a new friend. The goblin girls were all excited to find out what it was, so they kept poking the little creature and asking questions about his pointy hat. All three of them ignored me.

  After that embarrassing display, I went back to my usual spot. Not only was Oggy banned from talking to me, but he was also joking around with the goblins, showing off his gnome friend, and generally getting a lot of attention from everyone. The whole thing stunk.

  And to make things worse, the bell rang as soon as I sat back down. I hadn’t wanted to start my feast without Oggy, so I’d waited for him to arrive. But he’d been late because of his “ankle situation,” and I’d wasted all that time watching him play with his gnome friend. Midday feast was over, and I hadn’t even had a bite to eat.

  At that point, I OUGHT to have just gone back to class. I went to visit Hal instead. Except the dragon refused to speak to me. He was fast asleep but woke briefly just to tell me to relax and take a nap of my own.

  The universe was telling me to back off. Slow down, it said. Take it easy. Stop trying so hard.

  I did the opposite. I couldn’t slow down! Operation Dark Lord was pretty much all I had left. I was determined to find the perfect spell, and no one was going to stop me. I headed back to the Archive of Malevolent Mysticism, spoke the password, and entered the great and cavernous tower.

  Inside, spell books of every conceivable description lined the walls. I could spend years browsing the stacks, but I needed to make certain no one saw me. So I snuck into the section on illusions and vanishings, which was appropriately concealed at the back of the archive. It wasn’t my favorite subject, but the stacks WERE abandoned and generally difficult to find. Also, I thought I’d check out some of the lower-level spells the illusionists used, just to get an idea of what was out there. I found a pocket edition called Minor Vanishings and How to Dismiss Them. I slipped it underneath my warlock robe and headed up the archive’s back stair. This time I went straight to the top of the tower. I guessed it would be empty. Not that many warlocks are old enough to cast the ultra-high-level spells.

  Unfortunately, someone was already there.

  Wormfinger. From behind one of the stacks, I could see that the bald-headed, mostly failed, occasional cryptogeometry professor was poring through some pretty dangerous titles. I mean, who needs a book called Exploding Students? He should have been in the MG-45 and under section, but he was looking at MG-135 tomes, which were way above his age level. And under his arm he had one of the Dark Lord biographies. I recognized the black leather cover. Then, as he pulled down a volume called Transvaporization, Indiscernibility, and Alchemy, he turned around and looked right at ME.

  I ducked, and I think I got out of the way before he recognized me.

  I hurried down the stairs, out of the archive, and all the way back to Gorey’s tower. No one followed, so I THINK I made it out of there without getting caught. I heaved a great sigh of relief! Phew! Tomorrow was Dark Lord Day, and the last thing I wanted to do on our great and terrible holiday was scrub the machine room again.

  FIREDAY

  On Dark Lord Day, we pay homage to the Dark Lord Who Vanished, Abaddon Bal Gorath the Terrible—otherwise known as my dad. Ever since he went poof in that cloud of smoke ten years ago, the grim folk have gathered once a year to honor his memory. We unveil my dad’s scepter and then we have an enormous feast. We eat a lot, the ogres usually break something, the goblins cook, and I try not to get crushed by a rampaging ogre or seared by an overexcited dragon.

  As the grim folk assembled for the celebrations, Gorey and I stood on the steps of my father’s towering throne of black and broken glass. I was excited to celebrate my parents’ legacy but also kind of terrified. Dark Lord Day is all about fire, and I’ve already said how I feel about that.

  The general waved his hand and great gouts* of flame sprang into the air. Fire shot from chandeliers. It splashed from scuppers and gushed from gargoyles. The orcs tossed pinecones into the flames. Embers swirled. Beads of sweat dribbled down my face and back. I sneezed and my eyes watered. Seriously, there was no need for this amount of flame, but it was too late to turn back. Just as the fires reached their height, the leaders of the grim folk strode into the throne room.

  One Eye, the king of the frost giants and the mightiest of the living grim folk leaders, thundered into the chamber, towering over everyone. His head nearly scraped the ceiling, and within it, a pair of ice-white eyes shone like oysters against his pale white skin. A crown of snow dangled from his head while shimmering ice armor covered him from shoulder to foot. It was impressive to behold but also a little impractical. The crown was half melted by the time he set foot in the throne room.

  Gorey introduced the king and read his titles. “Welcome One Eye, Emperor of Clouds, Lord of the Mountain, Hammer of the North, Smasher of Walls, Crusher of Kingdoms.” He had at least twenty other titles and Gorey read the list aloud each year, so I was pretty familiar with it. I started thinking about other things. For instance, why did they call him One Eye? I’d always wondered about that one. He clearly had two eyes. In fact, when he pushed his hair aside, he revealed a third eye tattooed on his forehead. Shouldn’t he be called Three Eye?

  As Gorey read the last title, the king settled into place and the goblins readied their show. They sprinkled fireweed from the rafters. Red smoke clouded the chamber, and their queen sauntered out of it. She was taller than an ogre but thinner than a sheet of parchment. And she wore armor that blazed red like the summer sun. Gorey read HER list of titles.

  “Welcome Queen Incarnadine Ka-Voris, the Queen in Red, Monarch of the Goblin Barrows of the West, Liege of the Under Lands, and greetings to your daughter, Storiaka Kiriandalis Savilka Ka-Voris, Warrior of the Katsirluki, Guardian of the Goblin Tribes, Daughter of the Sword, and Keeper of the Goblin Way.”

  The goblin queen and her daughter both had red skin, bright as a fire ant. I liked the look and was always eager to see them. Goblins come in all shades and colors, and their eyes are as big as oranges. So they look like kids who’ve eaten too much candy. WAY too much candy.

  I watched them take their seats as the ogre chieftain, Burst Bloodbag, stomped into the room, swinging his club and looking confused. He’d shown up two days early for Dark Lord Day, but upon arrival, he’d apologized for being late. Ogres. They just don’t understand scheduling. This was the tenth year in row that we’d celebrated the dark holiday, but the chieftain still couldn’t get the date right. Gorey had tried to tell Burst he was early. But the chieftain hadn’t believed him. The ogre probably thought we were staging a second Dark Lord Day today, just because he’d missed the first one.

  And he didn’t even sit in the right spot. He sat down with the goblins, which only caused additional confusion. I was surprised a full-scale war didn’t break out. A goblin had to escort him back across the chamber just so the chieftain could sit with the ogres.

  Somewhere amid all the fuss, a shower of sparks announced the arrival of the witches and warlocks. Garandash appeared in a cascade of ever-changing light that transformed from a starburst to a dragon’s head before finally settling into the tall and always-intimidating silhouette of the Dark Lord Who Vanished. It hung there for a moment. Then the sparks all scattered and Garandash shuffled i
nto the chamber with the rest of the group.

  His beard was as long as an alligator, and it took two warlocks to carry the thing. Once or twice I saw a spark strike the hair and catch fire, but his beard must have been enchanted because the flames just turned into a little fireworks display.

  I watched the beard pop and sizzle as Garandash sat down with the rest of his folk. He was the last of the grim folk leaders, but he wasn’t the end of the line. There were plenty of others, but they didn’t have kings or queens or anything like that. The orcs fell into that category. And the dragons each thought they WERE kings or queens. The trolls didn’t have a king. They were hermits for the most part. But I saw a scattering of the green, wart-covered guys make their way into the room, followed by a horde of wandering orcs and at least two dragons. I looked around for Hal, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sleeping, probably. I had to admire his adherence to the dragon lifestyle.

  When the last of the grim folk had settled into place, it was time for the show to begin.

  To announce the celebration’s start, dark smoke billowed from the throne of black and broken glass. A terrible fog rose up. Then two massive ogres lumbered out of the mist, ropes slung over their shoulders. A circle of flame exploded in the air and a crack like thunder rang through the chamber as the ogres pulled a black cart into view. A flash of light illuminated a box, upon which sat my dad’s cloak. The cloth reflected no light. It was made of shadows, cut from the night and imbued with all its darkness. And beneath that cloak the Scepter of Ultimate Darkness waited to be unveiled.