Or they’d write that I escaped through the dungeons amid the worst TURD STORM in history.
It wasn’t much of a beginning for any kind of decent story, especially one that belonged to the future great and terrible leader of the grim folk. I had to try not to let the possibility of a tarnished legacy bother me. There was work to be done.
Oggy had just run out of pinecones. So I ran across the courtyard, lifted the drain cover, and climbed down into the dungeons. At that point, all those hours I’d spent scrubbing the machine rooms and cleaning out the storm drains were about to come in handy. I’d memorized the layout of the tunnels, and I was pretty sure I knew which ones led directly to the Gurgling Lake of Sulfur.
Unfortunately, I’d wasted most of the day trading letters with Oggy. By the time I climbed down into the sewers, it was almost dark outside and even darker in the tunnels. And I hadn’t brought a torch. I thought I’d be in and out before sundown. Even though I knew my way around the passageways, all that knowledge was useless in the dark.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. As I hit the tunnel floor, I remembered something: After a big windstorm, the guards let loose a whole bunch of hideous creatures. These monsters spend the night cleaning up any “foreign objects” the guards might happen to sweep into the drains. There are barf-sucking serpents and dung-chugging doppelgangers—all sorts of multitoothed monstrosities.
Operation Dark Lord was never going to get off the ground if I had my leg chewed off, so I climbed halfway up the ladder and huddled beneath the drain, journal in hand, wondering which part of my body was going to be detached first.
TOMBSDAY
Thank all that’s grim and terrible in the world, I made it to the next morning with my limbs intact and my veins full of blood. I hadn’t slept, but I had done a good amount of thinking—most of it about One Eye and why he might have stolen the scepter. Was there a war brewing? Was he plotting to invade the faire folk lands? I mean, why else would the king of the frost giants take the scepter unless he had plans to use it? That magic is meant for frying whole kingdoms or evaporating oceans. We’re talking mass mayhem and destruction here. End of the world type stuff. That kind of power belongs to the Dark Lord and no one else. And that scepter held the essence of my parents’ magic, which was why I was determined to get it back.
So I shook off the chill, climbed down that ladder, brushed the dust and dirt and some stuff I couldn’t or didn’t want to identify from my robe, and headed toward the exit. Admittedly, I made a few wrong turns—maybe just three or four. Okay, in truth, I was lost for pretty much the whole day. I didn’t know where to go until I finally saw a bit of light. There was literally a light at the end of the tunnel, and I followed it. Actually, I ran to it. Unfortunately, bars thick enough to stop an ogre sealed the mouth of the tunnel.
I didn’t recall seeing that gate in the past. It was one of those iron contraptions that hung from ropes and hid in a pocket in the ceiling. I assumed Gorey must have dropped the gates when the scepter was stolen. A watermelon-sized lock secured the bars. And to make things worse, there was a goblin waiting on the far side with a key. She smirked at me, her skin red as a beet, limbs long and spindly. At first she looked to be a year or two older than me, but goblins are always tall for their age. I guessed she was twelve. She had a charmingly crooked smile, and her fangs were polished to a mirror-like sheen. Her armor stretched from shoulder to toe and glinted warmly in the setting sun. She stood in a small wooden boat with two benches and two pairs of oars. A notebook and quill poked from a pack she wore over one shoulder. The sight was slightly familiar. I could have sworn I’d seen her before.
“Who are you, and how did YOU get that key?” I asked.
“Why did YOU try to escape through the tunnels?” she asked.
She’d ignored my question, so I tried again. “You have a name?”
“Storiaka Kiriandalis Savilka Ka-Voris, Warrior of the Katsirluki, Guardian of the Goblin Tribes, Daughter of the Sword, and Keeper of the Goblin Way, daughter of Queen Incarnadine Ka-Voris, the Queen in Red, Liege of the Under Lands, and Monarch of the Goblin Barrows of the West,” she said, announcing each title in the stentorian tones* of a hardened warrior.
Her voice made my ears ring. That wasn’t a name, it was a monologue. Luckily, it HAD jarred my memory. “You were there on Dark Lord Day,” I said. That was why she looked familiar. “But we weren’t properly introduced. I don’t suppose you have a shorter name, something your friends call you?”
At that, she just narrowed her eyes, which made me think maybe she didn’t have friends.
“You may call me Storey. It’s short for—”
“Storiaka. I get it,” I said. “I’m Wick.”
She smirked. “I know who you are. EVERYONE knows who you are.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if my reputation as the “Dork Lord” had spread to the Goblin Barrows of the West. I wasn’t sure if her knowing my name was a good thing or not.
I studied her face to see which Wick she was picturing, but I saw only a blank stare. This goblin was cold. She gave me the chills, so I quickly finished out my list of questions. “So, why are you standing outside the Grimhold’s secret exit? How did you get that key? And why haven’t you used it? Are you going to open this thing?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Um, I asked four questions.”
“I know. I just thought the first and third were kind of dumb and the second was none of your business, so I went with fourth—is that a problem?”
In fact, it WAS a problem. Though she was a goblin, I could tell she was as stubborn as an ogre. Maybe she HAD heard about the whole Dork Lord thing. She certainly didn’t have much respect for the Dark Lord’s son, the Keeper of the Fountains of Flame and all that. I thought about reciting MY title, but that hadn’t worked out well in the past.
“Shouldn’t you be planning meals or tinkering with clocks—isn’t that what goblins do?”
Her red skin turned a shade redder, which I kinda liked.
“I’ll have you know that I am—”
“You already did the titles,” I said.
“Well, obviously you weren’t paying attention. Or maybe I was speaking a bit too quickly for you—did you miss one?”
“I did. In fact, I went to sleep as soon as you started the list. I was dreaming about someone opening this gate. Care to make it happen?” I asked.
“I’ll open it if you let me tag along on your little adventure. I know you’re after the scepter, trying to find out who stole it—right? RIGHT?” She said it twice. Just like that.
I almost turned around and marched right back into the tunnels. There had to be some other way out of the castle. For orc’s sake, this just wasn’t worth it. But she had the boat and the key. And let’s face it, it wasn’t like I could use Irae’s boot-tying spell to open an iron lock.
“Okay, fine. You’re right. Now open the lock,” I said. The next part came with considerable reluctance. “And . . . I will take you with me.”
“Can’t hear you,” she said. “REALLY, you’re speaking way too softly.”
Didn’t she know I was sneaking out of the Grimhold on a covert mission? Of course I was whispering. Meanwhile, Storey began to whistle some goblin tune (“Bat’s Porridge,” I think). And the boat was banging away against the iron bars, making a terrible racket. She might as well have been invading the castle with a horde of howling banshees. I’d already wasted a whole day sneaking out of the Grimhold, and this goblin was about to ruin it all. She even started tapping her claws on the iron bars, one after another, each one chiming like a little bell. A wave struck the boat, and her sword rattled against the iron bars. She was like a one-goblin orchestra. If the orcs hadn’t been too busy agonizing over the Roaming Rash, one of them would have heard the noise, bent his head over the edge of the wall, and seen us.
“Seriously,�
� she said. “Can’t hear you.”
Probably because of all that NOISE she was making. In general, I don’t have a lot of patience for this sort of stuff, but if I didn’t shut her up, we’d be discovered. So I gave in to her request and raised my voice.
“OPEN THE GATE, and you can tag along with me,” I said in what you might call a fairly loud whisper.
She smiled as she stuck that little key into the oversized lock. It opened with a loud click.
I’m not sure what happened next. But I don’t think it was my fault. Okay, I may have pushed on the gate a bit too hard, causing it to swing abruptly in her direction. To the untrained eye, it might have looked like I purposefully knocked her off of the boat and into the Gurgling Lake of Sulfur. But it was a complete accident.
Most grimmies think the lake is poisonous, so she probably figured she was dead. Gone. Dissolved into nothingness.
They’re wrong.
For those who lack true knowledge of the Grimhold, the Gurgling Lake of Sulfur might seem like a deadly cesspool. But it isn’t. In truth, there’s no sulfur in it. None at all. The water stinks like rotten eggs. That’s a fact. Remember the sky toilets and all that stuff they dump into the water? It smells, but that’s the worst of it. The lake is not even a lake, really. It’s more like a bog. Anyone can just wade through it. It’s only waist-deep. And the effervescence is natural—something to do with volcanic activity. Before the Grimhold was built, they used to call it Lake Champagne, like the sparkling wine. But, as you’ll recall, orcs and ogres and even most goblins aren’t big on history. They forget things. So most everyone forgot about the champagne.
I’m not an orc. I’m a tour guide. I know all about the Grimhold, so I calmly explained to Storey that she wasn’t in any real danger. It was all just an accident, but I don’t think she bought it.
Instead she introduced me to what I can only call her unbelievably long sword. It was taller than Storey, and she didn’t look afraid to use it. She was knee-deep in water, a good ten feet from where I was standing, but that blade was long enough to nick my nose, which was unfortunate, because that’s what she had pointed it at.
The sword dangled in front of me.
Minutes passed. A bird chirped. An orc spat from the wall and nearly hit me. The sword shook in her hands. Then she said, “I’ll give you a pass this time.”
“Lucky me,” I mumbled. I figured she was probably just tired of holding that thing. It looked about as heavy as a dragon’s tail. Ready to hop aboard, I took hold of the open gate and gazed out at the gurgling lake. The sky was a deep shade of purple. And as I slipped into the boat, the sun began to set and the basilisks nodded off for the night. We grabbed the oars and made our way across the water.
“You look to be my age,” I said.
“Twelve,” she said with a nod.
“Yeah, me too,” I said. “Haven’t seen you at Nightshadows, though.”
“That school is great for warlocks, tinkerers too. But they don’t teach you how to fight. I hear it’s all rage-free this and that. I go to a school for warriors and assassins. We learn to channel our rage into fighting strength.”
“So, you go to that goblin school in the Barrows of the East? Or is it the West? Sorry, I spend so much time in Dark Lord training, it’s hard to keep track of this kind of stuff,” I said nonchalantly. I’d heard about her school, but I was just playing dumb. This goblin had shown up with a boat and a key at exactly the right time. I knew something was going on here.
“West,” she said curtly. Just like before, she wasn’t giving me much.
“So you play with swords, evil archery?” It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. “What’s the school called?” I asked, but she didn’t respond. “You have a favorite flavor of bat’s breath? Ever fix a clock?” Again, no reply. “Not into cooking or tinkering?” I asked. Still nothing. She looked as if she’d gone into some kind of warrior’s trance—like she was meditating or something. But I was sure Storey was just ignoring me. So I gave up on my interrogation. The sun had at last hit the horizon. And as the sky turned from purple to black, we reached the far shore.
I quickly realized I probably should have brought a tent and some camping equipment. One of those big pots for making stew would have been useful. But I had none of that, and neither did Storey. The castle had been totally locked down, the armory closed, and the supply rooms bolted. I’d had to dash from my tower straight down into the tunnels, so my only supplies were some dried eel strips I found on Gorey’s table, the pocket guide to spells, and my journal—all of which fit nicely into the pockets of my warlock robe.
As I lay down to sleep, I wrapped the heavy fabric of the robe tightly around myself. I was hungry and cold, and I hadn’t even brought a bearskin blanket. Reluctantly, I laid my head on the rocky earth. I’d never slept on the ground, but this was an adventure. Things weren’t supposed to be easy. And it WAS just dirt. The ogres loved it. How bad could it be?
WORMSDAY
Turns out, the earth is hard. REALLY hard. Rigid as rock. Hard as an ogre’s skull. Stiff as ice and just as cold. It’s covered with pebbles and worms and all sorts of things with pincers. I don’t think Dark Lords were meant to rest on it. I know I wasn’t. I barely slept a wink, and when I finally did catch a little shut-eye, a terrible crash woke me up. Something had hit the earth beside my head. When I opened my eyes, I was startled to find an ogre next to me. It was one of the hill folk who live, well . . . in the hills. As ogres go, they’re even less bright than their more “sophisticated” cousins who live in the Grimhold. (And that’s saying something.)
“Me thought you wizard,” said the ogre. He was explaining why he’d nearly smashed my head in. Apparently, he’d thought I was one of the faire folk. I stood up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. That’s when I saw there were two ogres standing on the beach beside us, one tall and one short (for an ogre). Both wore torn leather tunics. They were two or three times the height of a grown warlock, and their gray skin rippled with muscle. Frankly, they looked like the sort of guys who could pop me open with a poke of their little finger. So I raised my hands to show that I was unarmed and wearing a warlock robe, which is black instead of gray like a wizard’s. But it was dark outside, the sun lurking beneath the horizon. Anyone could have mistaken me for one of the faire folk. And on top of that, these were hill ogres, and I’ve already explained what that meant.
“I’m Wick,” I said carefully.
“And I’m ANGRY,” said the short ogre.
“And I’m ABOUT TO CLOBBER YOU,” said the tall one.
I took a step back. What was going on? The ogres were our friends. Why was one angry, and why would the other want to clobber me?
Storey slid her absurdly long sword out of its scabbard. I shook my head. “No,” I whispered. “Never start a fight with an ogre.” Everyone knew that. These guys were two tons of muscle attached to two ounces of brain. I shot her one of those sideways glances—the kind grimmies use to show their annoyance. But she refused to lower her blade, and the big ogre still had his club aimed at my head. I took a deep breath and met his eyes.
He didn’t look like he was about to clobber me. The ogre was smiling a big dumb smile, his head swaying from side to side. He looked happy—really happy. And so did the small one.
Now, ogres aren’t normally cheerful. They’re usually confused, sometimes irritated. They only smile when they’re about to crush someone. But it wasn’t one of those malevolent I’m-going-to-enjoy-smashing-you-to-bits kinds of grins. Bob had given me plenty of those. This was a genuine smile. The angry ogre was happy, and his tall friend wasn’t about to clobber me, which was how I finally figured things out.
“You’re ANGRY,” I said, pointing to the short ogre. His bucktoothed grin widened. “Happy to meet you, Angry,” I said, and his smile broadened a bit more. “Angry’s his name,” I said to Storey. She kept her sword raised.
“He’s Angry, and he’s About to Clobber You,” I said pointing from one ogre to the next. They nodded their heads up and down like they were bobbing for rotten apples. The hill ogres find it difficult to communicate with others, so they are always happy when someone understands them, which isn’t very often, mind you.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
The ogres scratched their armpits and ears. I chuckled a bit. Couldn’t they just scratch their heads like everyone else?
“We here for Dark Lord Day,” said the tall ogre after considerable thought.
“Well, you missed it,” I said. “Sorry. We’ll be off now. We’re headed to the frost giants’ castle.”
“We go there too!” Angry exclaimed.
Was he was really going there? I didn’t know. Maybe he just misunderstood what I said. Either way, I wasn’t interested in their company. I needed to sneak into the castle. And my team already had a conspicuously tall goblin with an even taller sword. By my count, that was two problems, so I didn’t need two more. These ogres were a pair of towers, tall as ancient oaks. So, not exactly cut out for “covert work.” They were the kind of guys who knocked down a door. I needed to slip inside one. So I bade my farewell.
In response, Angry picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
“Stop!” I said, but I was already on my stomach, bent over his shoulder, head planted firmly between the cheeks of his buttocks. It was all a little embarrassing, but I swallowed my pride and pinched my nose. I heard a yelp from over my shoulder and assumed that About to Clobber You had lifted Storey from the beach.
“Back off, you big oaf,” she cried, “I’m a trained—” Her howling war cry was abruptly swallowed up by the even louder shout of the hill ogre. “I’m not finished . . .” she hollered in a voice that seemed determined to be heard.
And indeed, she wasn’t finished. As Angry swung around, I finally caught sight of Storey. She had also been tossed over the ogre’s shoulder. Storey pounded the gray-skinned behemoth with both fists, but he paid her no attention.
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 9