Even though I’d seen the same smoke-and-ogre show for ten years in a row, I still gasped at the sight of it. I must’ve looked pretty important standing next to the most powerful weapon in the grim world. So I hoped this moment might erase some of my recent bad press.
“The power of the scepter keeps the peace, and it holds the essence of the Dark Lord’s magic,” Gorey said. “So it’s securely stored in this completely indestructible, impossible-to-break case that even I don’t know how to open. No one, neither grim nor faire, can touch it or wield its terrible power. Well, except for someone of great power, like the Dark Lord . . . Now let’s all take a good look at it.”
He wobbled over to the cart and placed his hand on the cloak. He waited. Time passed. The ogres grunted, and the orcs howled. Sweat rolled down my face. Gorey liked to build suspense, but enough was enough. I nodded to the general. He put two hands on the black cloth, gave the cloak a tug, and . . . Wait for it. I’m trying to build suspense.
No. That’s not true. Actually, I don’t want to write down what happened next. It’s too awful. Too dreadful for dragons. Too ghastly for goblins. Too monstrous for any monster. And definitely too wicked for us warlocks.
Gorey drew back the Cloak of Shadows and revealed . . . an empty cart. Completely empty. The case and everything in it had vanished.
SADDERDAY
When the grim folk realized the scepter was gone, things got a little crazy in the throne room. There was a lot of howling and wailing. Total shrieking chaos. Everyone wanted to blame someone else for the scepter’s disappearance, and no one wanted to take responsibility for the theft.
First, the ogres jabbed their stubby fingers at the goblins. They have a guilty look, so everyone is always trying to blame them for stuff. Also, the chieftain and the queen were feuding, so the accusation was no big surprise. But the goblins all said their queen—who was too lofty to reply—wore the Crown of Gloaming. She didn’t need another “weapon of ultimate power.” Apparently, her little tiara could banish the sun and stars and bring about eternal night, which IS somewhat remarkable. It’s also pointless. I’ve caught more than one red goblin bathing in the sun, trying to get that nice orange glow. And you can’t exactly grow crops and stuff without the sun, and half the goblins are vegetarians. Honestly, they’d only be punishing themselves if they banished the day. But the rest of the grim folk agreed the crown was suitably impressive. Terrifying, even. So they let the goblins off the hook.
But I guess the skinny guys must have been angry about the ogres’ claim, because the goblins pointed their hangnailed fingers and asked if the big guys had done the deed. I don’t think the ogre chieftain was in a creative mood because he came up with the same excuse. His Club of Obliteration could split a castle in two or even three parts. Unfortunately, that thing is so heavy it takes an hour just to lift it. Castles and large rocks are pretty much the ONLY things the chieftain can smash with it. Anything living (like an army of soldiers) has plenty of time to run out of the way. So unless the chieftain was angry at some mountain or a really big rock, the club was also useless. Still, the grim folk hooted and hollered. And that hunk of wood cleared the chieftain’s name.
From there, all the grim folk jumped on the whole “weapon of ultimate power” excuse. Apparently, EVERYONE had one. After my dad vanished, Garandash became the high warlock, aka the head of the witches and warlocks. You need to be at least MG-16 to hold the post, and you’re expected to wield some pretty heavy-duty magic. My dad willed his scepter to me, so our head spell caster had to make his own “weapon of power.” He created the Wand of Cleaving, which slices things into little pieces. It does a great job. The warlocks can dice carrots or slice an enemy’s shield into a million strips, but I can’t picture them ruling a kingdom with it. Maybe they could run a kitchen. That wand would be REALLY useful if the warlocks had a massive stack of potatoes to slice. I was unconvinced, but the wand got the warlocks off the hook.
Only the orcs remained. But their Boomerang of Belittlement is even more pathetic than the other “weapons of ultimate destruction.” It’s almost a disgrace. That thing showers misfortune over all those who are unlucky enough to pass beneath it. Think that’s a good idea? Think again. Boomerangs always return to the thrower. So while it might spread great misfortune over the orcs’ foes, when it does come back around, it spreads that same misfortune over the orcs and especially their leader, the guy who threw it. Gorey only used it once, and it was a complete disaster. The orcs were tripping over their own heels and clubbing themselves on the head.
After that one incident, Gorey hung the boomerang on the castle wall, and he didn’t even bother to lock it up or anything. I think he was actually HOPING someone would steal it, but no one’s ever touched it. Still, the orcs all nodded and pretended the boomerang was as fearsome as my dad’s scepter.
So pretty much everyone in the room had an excuse for not stealing my dad’s staff. Well, almost everyone. They all looked at me with a hint of suspicion. “The scepter is technically mine,” I said. “It belonged to my dad. And when he vanished, it became my property. That was his will.” But apparently I still hadn’t convinced everyone. So I said, “It’s impossible to steal something that already belongs to me. It’s totally pointless.”
After a long moment, the goblins nodded their grim heads, and the orcs and ogres followed suit. I wasn’t the guy who’d taken it, and everyone else claimed innocence as well. So Gorey took charge of the situation. “No one in or out until we’ve found the thief,” he said, but he was a little late. When the general first pulled back the cloak and revealed the empty cart, the frost giants hit the road, and one of the dragons set sail and vanished. I even saw a witch or two hop on her broomstick and fly out the window.
A few had escaped, but the rest of the grim folk were trapped in the Grimhold until the thief came forward. As for me, I got sent to my room. And all I had for dinner was a half piece of moldy bread. Gorey mumbled something about needing to “ration food,” since almost everyone in the grim world was locked inside the castle. But I think he was just in a bad mood. The old orc probably blamed himself for losing my dad’s scepter. He forced his soldiers to run drills and do push-ups and all that other stuff military officers do when they want to punish their soldiers.
I slipped into bed and lay there among the jumbled pile of goose feathers and bearskin blankets that made up my bedding. Eyes closed, I tried to decide what to do next. That black hunk of obsidian meant something to me. In the final battle with Galorian, when my parents vanished in a cloud of smoke, the only thing they left behind was the scepter. It was my inheritance. MY weapon of ultimate power. If I ever got around to mastering some high-level magic and gathering my horde, that scepter would help ensure peace among the grim folk. So I needed to find it.
This was the true start of Operation Dark Lord, the moment I’d been waiting for. I’d found a way to prove my worth to the grim folk.
I was going to find the stolen scepter.
SULLENDAY
With no time to lose, I woke before dawn. For weeks, I’d been trying to get Operation Dark Lord up and running, and at each turn I’d failed. But today was going to be different.
After last night’s revelation, I was ready for the REAL start of my operation. Everything about this mission was important. My whole future was on the line. So, with the sky still dark and the sun deciding whether or not it was going to slip out of bed, I got started on the problem at hand: Who stole the scepter?
I lit a candle and scribbled down a list of possible suspects.
I started with the goblins. Was there any reason for them to take the scepter? The goblin lands sit alongside our border with the faire folk. They are neighbors with the elves. If the queen knew about the elf attacks, she might have been a little worried about her security. Maybe that Crown of Gloaming wasn’t as powerful as she claimed. I mean, even if she did bring about an eternal night, I’m pretty su
re the humans and elves have torches and stuff. They can make plenty of light, so I’m guessing they’re able to fight battles in the dark. The dwarves spend half their time in caves anyway, so they might not even notice if she banished the sun. Only the elves would mind. They want everyone to see their suits of golden armor and the peacockfeather plumes on their horses. Stuff like that. So when I thought about it, the queen DID have a reason to steal the scepter.
But as far as I knew, she spent most of her time preparing elaborate meals and feasting on them. I couldn’t imagine some glorified party planner like the goblin queen leading the dark army against the faire folk. No matter how many elf attacks there were on her border, it wasn’t going to happen. I scratched the goblins off the list.
I also ruled out the ogres. This robbery wasn’t their style. First off, nothing was smashed. The scepter and its case were just gone. In my experience, it’s almost impossible for an ogre to resist smashing a thing or two whenever the opportunity comes along. And the scepter’s cart is old and spindly, half fallen apart. No ogre could have stopped himself from crushing it into a million pieces. But the cart was still there and the scepter was gone. No shards of glass. No broken wood. No need to blame the ogres.
The orcs were next on my list, but they are loyal to the end—the Dark Lord’s soldiers—and they are generally too distracted by their body odor, boils, and dental problems to do anything other than howl in pain. Plus, they’d recently been hit with a plague of the Roaming Rash. It was a like a regular rash, all red and itchy. But when you tried to scratch it, the rash would just move out of the way before your fingers could reach it. So it was impossible to scratch the thing. I guessed it was a hex. Some orc must have really ticked off a witch to earn that jinx because it had spread like wildfire. Anytime a cursed orc touched someone, they passed the rash. So with all that going on, I couldn’t imagine a group of those guys sitting around a table and planning a high-stakes heist.
There were some other possibilities. A troll might have taken it. They ARE incredibly strong. And, if a troll had a weapon of ultimate power in his hands, he could probably gather some pretty steep tolls at his bridge. But then everyone would know that he had stolen the thing. I crossed off the trolls.
And I drew a line through the spot where I’d written dragons. The big, scaly guys are pretty content with their flaming breath. After all, they can BREATHE fire all by themselves. They don’t need a scepter to do it. Also, dragons are obsessed with gold and gems, sparkly jewelry of all sorts. The scepter is pure obsidian, so dark it drinks in the light. It wouldn’t exactly “go” with their glittering hoard of treasure.
After I crossed out the dragons, there was only one group left on my list: the witches and warlocks. Garandash MIGHT have stolen the scepter, but it wasn’t likely. He made the Wand of Cleaving. And I was certain he thought it was the best weapon in the world. In fact, all the witches and warlocks think their weapon is the best one ever made. Even that warlock who made the Candle of Gradually Dimming Light thinks it’s the best thing since moldy bread. The spell casters have TOO MUCH pride to acknowledge that MY dad’s weapon is WAY better than anything they could invent. If one of them stole the scepter, he’d just be admitting the general lameness of whatever he’d invented.
At that point, I’d ruled out all the castle folk, so I was starting to feel a little desperate. There was only one other possibility, but I didn’t think it was likely. I hadn’t even written the frost giants on my list.
First off, they’re a solitary folk. They live in the north atop snow-covered mountains. And they only come down from their frozen peaks once a year to attend Dark Lord Day, and even then, they do it reluctantly. The frost giants grow to eighty or sometimes a hundred feet tall. These guys are dangerous. In fact, they are the only grim folk who never kneeled before the Dark Lord. Their king, One Eye, says he bows to no one. He doesn’t care about the faire folk or the grim.
No one messes with the frost giants.
I was back at square one. All I had was a sheet of parchment with a bunch of crossed-out names on it. So I went through the list again, but this time I added the frost giants. See, I’d written off the goblins because they weren’t interested in war, but the giants never shied away from a fight. I’d given the orcs and ogres a pass because they were too crude to pull off a delicate heist, but the giants were quite intelligent. I’d cleared the witches and warlocks because they already had an abundance of magical weapons and too much pride to admit that all of them were pathetic. But the giants didn’t have warlocks or witches, so they couldn’t make a magical scepter, and they certainly couldn’t breathe fire like a dragon. So when I looked back at the list, the frost giants were the only ones left on it.
I still wasn’t convinced, but then a thought occurred to me. Back on my first castle tour, there was a frost giant in the group. And he’d been AWFULLY curious about the scepter. He’d asked a lot of questions about the case and the cart and why we only brought it out once a year. Was he a spy? Had he been trying to gather intelligence? What else had the frost giants done?
Well, they FLED the throne room when we discovered the missing scepter. They slipped out before Gorey could lock down the castle. And only the guilty flee.
They were arguably the most powerful creatures in the Known World, and ten years had passed since the Dark Lord vanished. Had they finally decided to take control of the grim folk? Did they know about the attack at Hadrian’s Hedge? Had the giants started their own operation in retaliation? Maybe we’d both tried to do something about the elf attacks, but they’d acted first and seized my dad’s weapon of power.
I finally had a theory, but I still needed to prove it. And to do that I would have to take a journey into the mountains, all the way up to the icy peaks where the giant, frozen castle lay looming and large, tall as a mountain, some said. It wasn’t a long journey. As the three-headed harpy flies, the frost giants’ castle was only a day’s voyage to the north. But I’d need to leave the castle, and the Grimhold was locked down. No one, including me, was allowed in or out. If I wanted to escape, I’d have to get around the general’s defenses. I couldn’t just walk across the drawbridge, take the night ferry, or slip out one of the back doors.
I needed to sneak out of the castle. Fortunately, I knew exactly how to do it.
MOANDAY
My plan started with a letter. As I’ve said, Oggy’s parents told him not to hang out with me or speak to me. They were pretty specific. Fortunately, they hadn’t said anything about note writing.
So I wrote out a brief apology (in case he was still angry with me), then I jotted down some very precise instructions. I sealed it with wax and asked one of the castle orcs to messenger it to Oggy. I swore the soldier to secrecy and asked him to wait for a reply. Just as I’d hoped, Oggy sent back a letter saying that he had generally forgiven me and would do what I said. Now, this was Oggy, so I figured he’d do about half of what I asked, but that would probably be enough.
Early that morning, a storm blew over the Grimhold. Trees bent. Leaves whistled through the air. As we exchanged letters, those same winds had grown into a swirling tempest. I sheltered at the base of Gorey’s tower, just out of sight of the guards, waiting while Oggy made his preparations. With the orcs watching the place, I had no way to escape the castle unseen. But all of that was about to change.
A distant rattle echoed from one of the towers. Then something tiny and brown fell from above. One after another, those little torpedoes plummeted from a sky toilet. Someone (guess who?) had decided to use the privy. However, he wasn’t just using it, he was really going to town. Those turds flew from the hole, arcing and dancing in the wind. They filled the air, sending fear into the hearts of every orc, warlock, ogre, and goblin.
The guards were supposed to take extra measures to protect the grimmies on windy days like this. They definitely weren’t supposed to leave their posts, but I didn’t blame them for shirking t
heir DUTY. Nobody wants a turd to land on their head. First, it’s disgusting and possibly lethal. Second, I know if it happened to me, the grimmies would joke about it for the rest of my life. The guards must have had the same thought, because the second Oggy went to work, they bolted.
Of course, I knew the turds were just pinecones left over from the Dark Lord Day celebration. I’d told Oggy to take them to the highest sky toilet, and he’d done just that. He must have picked up six or eight sacks’ worth, because he made quite a storm. One or two hit me on the head, and I have to confess, I cringed. If they’d been real, it would have been one ugly day. As I crept through the courtyard, I leapt over the body of an orc, unconscious on the ground. He’d obviously panicked and blundered straight into a wall. I was sure he’d be fine, except maybe the occasional nightmare. Everyone else had taken shelter, so the coast was clear for my escape.
As I waited, I wondered—if I ever became the Dark Lord—what MY grim biographer would say about this moment. Maybe they’d write that I performed the great and malevolent Incantation of Disillumination, dimming the sun and dousing all the lights while I charged valiantly into the courtyard and hopped on the back of a five-headed hydra. As the guards cast about in utter darkness, unaware of my escape, I soared into the sky, the five heads of the hydra blowing puffs of fire into the air, one after another, the sky red with flame as I sailed away to freedom.
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 8