G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Text copyright © 2020 by Michael Johnston
Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Marta Altés
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Johnston, Michael, 1973– author.
Title: Confessions of a Dork Lord / Mike Johnston.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2020]
Summary: Twelve-year-old Wick, a warlock-in-training with allergies, sets out to prove that he is ready for his great and terrible destiny—to fill the shoes of his late father, the Dark Lord.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018059883 | ISBN 9781524740818 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781524740825 (ebook) Subjects: | CYAC: Warlocks—Fiction. | Imaginary creatures—Fiction. | Leadership—Fiction. | Orphans—Fiction. | Fantasy. | Humorous stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.J647 Con 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018059883
Ebook ISBN 9781524740825
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 2020 by Marta Altés
Cover design by Eileen Savage
Version_1
For Mattie
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Sadderday
Sullenday
Moanday
Tombsday
Wormsday
Thornsday
Fireday
Sadderday
Sullenday
Moanday
Tombsday
Wormsday
Thornsday
Fireday
Sadderday
Sullenday
Moanday
Tombsday
Wormsday
Thornsday
Fireday
Sadderday
Sullenday
Moanday
Wormsday
Moanday
Tombsday
Wormsday
Thornsday
Fireday
Sadderday
Moanday
Tombsday
Wormsday
About the Author and Illustrator
SADDERDAY
The Dark Ages
I think I’ll start with the obvious. I mean, everyone knows who the Dark Lord is—right? He’s the guy with the all-black wardrobe. The villainous ruler with the vile henchmen. The bad guy the good folks just LOVE to hate.
But what’s a Dork Lord? Is it a cruel joke? A careless mispronunciation?
Actually, it’s a bit of both.
See, the name Dark Lord comes from the old orcish phrase Lord d’Orc, which means “Lord of the Orcs.” When I first went to school, I tried to explain my future title to a bunch of orcs, but all they heard was dork and lord. So that’s what they called me: Dork Lord.
My friends call me Wick, but my full name is Azrael Bal Gorath the Wicked, Keeper of the Fountains of Flame, Breaker of Worlds, Son of the Dark Lord Who Vanished, and Heir to the Throne of Black and Broken Glass. But that one hasn’t exactly caught on, and I guess there’s a reason for that. Dark Lords are generally tall and intimidating. My dad was six foot ten and wore a cloak woven from fire. He was the real deal. No one ever called HIM a Dork Lord—not unless they wanted to get torched. He could level mountains or turn whole forests to ash. We’re talking major stuff. Feats no Dark Lord had ever accomplished before. Even the dragons bowed to him.
But ten years ago, the faire folk—you know, the elves, humans, and dwarves—attacked the grim folk, which is pretty much everyone else like me: the ogres, orcs, dragons, goblins, witches, and warlocks.*
During the surprise, totally UNFAIR attack, the “good” wizard Galorian struck down our Dark Lord and Dark Lady (aka my mom and dad). But he must have been feeling pretty smug after winning the fight because he accidentally tripped and fell on my dad’s throne of black and broken glass. That was the end of Galorian, so the battle finished with a truce. And ten years later, we’re still at peace with the faire folk, which is kind of a relief for me.
Because, well, I am the heir to the Dark Lord’s throne.
But, just to make things clear, there’s NOTHING dark or terrible about me.
I’m twelve, and at four ten, I’m a bit short for my age. Also, it’s hard to be into the whole “fire and brimstone” thing when you’ve got allergies. Smoke makes my eyes water. And I don’t do well in extreme temperatures. Try standing next to a shower of flame. It’s not as fun as it sounds. Not fun at all, actually. I’m a kid, for orc’s sake. And I spend most of my time just trying to get through the day without embarrassing myself. It’s no small task.
Dad didn’t make it easy for me to follow in his grim and fiery footsteps. In fact, he did just about the opposite. He left strict instructions with his minions so they’d know just what to do if anything ever happened to him. And he didn’t tell them anything helpful like “you must bow to the son of the Dark Lord.” No. He chose a DIFFERENT direction.
For some reason, Dad wanted me to have a “normal” childhood (terrible, I know). So I didn’t inherit his gold. And he commanded his henchmen to treat me like any other kid. No special privileges. No treats. No titles. And most of all, NO RESPECT—none at all.
Dad wanted me to prove myself as a leader, and he thought I should do it without anyone’s help. It’s how HE earned the dark throne. And it’s the reason why my life is basically ONE BIG DISASTER.
Today was a perfect example.
I had just walked out into the courtyard of the Grimhold* when one of the biggest ogres in my class, Bob Ogreson, came charging up to me. “You’re next on my list, Bal Gorath, get ready,” he cried.
Immediately I groaned.
The “list” is the Castle Ogres’ Index of Muscle, Mayhem, and Magic. It’s an age-old tradition started and run by the ogres that ranks the children of the grim folk. The ogres call it a contest, but there aren’t any real games. The last time I checked, lifting or smashing stuff wasn’t exactly considered a sport, but that’s what we do in the contest.
In preparation for this SACRED tradition, I’d been working on a phony cold, sniffling a bit each day. By tomorrow I planned to have a full-blown case of the fake flu, leaving me bedridden and unable to compete. But apparently the ogres decided to hold the contests a day EARLY. Already the warlocks and witches were lined up. And there was Bob waving me over, the list in his hand.
I sensed disaster.
<
br /> These days, only the muscle heads take the top slots on the Castle Ogres’ Index, which is why I call it the Brute List. It’s also the reason why I planned to be out sick. This was the first year I was eligible for the contest. And in all honesty, I was worried about my prospects. I just wasn’t ready for this sort of thing. I’m a warlock. We study the dark arts, and we do it at our own pace. Casting a powerful spell isn’t like smashing in a skull or battering down a door. It’s more like trying to hit a bull’s-eye at three hundred yards while performing the Dance of Grim Merriment as you recite two lines of trochaic tetrameter.
Needless to say, magic takes decades to master. So by the time I’m ready to obliterate something, Bob will probably be living in an old folks’ home, or something like that.
Unfortunately, he’s not there yet, not even close. And I’m a warlock-in-training—a student of Remedial Spell Casting. I have a few tricks up my cloak sleeves . . . Well, actually, that’s a lie. I have almost no skills. But that’s not my fault. The stuff they teach us in school is just lame. It takes years to learn high-level, mind-blowing magic, spells that can shatter castle walls or annihilate whole armies, and we’re not even close to studying that stuff, not by a mile—or a hundred miles, for that matter.
In all honesty, the best enchantment I know is probably the Fart Revealer. That’s right. There’s nothing wrong with your ears (or your eyes). The best spell I know is the FART REVEALER.
After someone’s “tooted” his horn, this enchantment makes the guilty gasbag glow green. And you know what? It’s actually a pretty useful spell. I like it. The goblins LOVE it. And the warlocks use it ALL the time. Everyone ALWAYS wants to know who farted. So when Bob called out, “Dork Lord, your turn!” I had only one choice.
“Is that a FOUL odor I smell?” I asked as I sniffed the air. Of course, in the Grimhold, you never have to wait long for an ogre to shake one loose. I figured there was probably a fifty-fifty chance that someone had already blown one . . . and I was right!
The air was filled with stink. Half the goblins were already pinching their noses. And even the orcs looked disgusted.
I had just struck gold, or so I hoped.
“I’ve got this one!” I exclaimed. If the spell worked, I’d probably make the low end of the list. I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if I messed up. So I said the enchantment, “Orcogrus findum flatulum.” Then I went through the spell’s physical components, which involve a whole bunch of finger waving and stuff like that. I lifted my hands, but I couldn’t remember if I needed to do a double twist of the wrist followed by a slight tug on my little finger or a hard tug on my little finger followed by a full wrist flex. I took a chance and went for the double twist, but nothing happened. I waited. Then I did the full flex, but it was too late. The air had cleared—literally.
My spell had failed, and there I was, surrounded by grimmies,* everyone in the courtyard looking at me. Even that three-headed ogre, Grimshoulders, had all six of his eyes trained on me and was giggling like a lunatic.
As for me? I wasn’t the least bit surprised at my failure.
At this point, I should probably stop and explain something. Even though I’m the son of the Dark Lord Who Vanished, I’ve never cast a spell—at least not successfully. My dad isn’t around to teach me the secrets of HIS magic, and for some reason, I just can’t cast the lame spells they teach us at school. I ought to be a great warlock, but I’m not. In fact, I’m terrible at spell casting. So I panicked. And that’s when my stomach dropped.
I felt a bit of gurgling in my mid-parts. And I tried to stop it. Heck, I clenched my cheeks with every bit of strength I had, but there was no going back. I let loose my own FART. And this time everyone heard it and knew EXACTLY who’d blown the horn. The goblins pinched their noses, and even the ogres took a step back to avoid the stink. I hoped that at least my fart would have triggered the enchantment, proving that I had SOME magical ability. But the spell had come and gone—just like my chance to impress everyone.
“Sorry, Wick, farts don’t count as muscle, magic, or even mayhem,” Bob said with a laugh. Then he looked around the courtyard. “Anyone else?” he asked. “Deidra? Tempest?” As the witches and warlocks came forward, I moved to the back of the crowd. I watched them perform minor tricks, turning apples purple and ogres pink, magically tying shoelaces into knots—that sort of thing. All of it was pretty lame, but at least THEIR spells worked. I was still trying to figure out how I’d messed up my incantation when they called out the next group—the ogres.
“Fangsplitter, Toadnail, and Frogfoot! Get ready! And grab the others!” cried Bob. Just then, a gaggle of overgrown oafs lumbered to the front of the crowd, flexing their great arms and striking elaborate poses to demonstrate the sizes and shapes of their muscles. These guys and girls are dumb as rocks—but exceptionally good at smashing them, and lifting large ones too. They can bench-press a small village or a mini mountain range. None of THOSE were available, but they did lift a few carts, a horse, and one tower.
As the ogres completed their feats of unearthly strength, Bob scribbled down some marks and called up the next group—the orcs. “Humblebag, Gasfinger, and Bloatan! You’re next!” he shouted while the green, horned guys shuffled out of the mob. No one expected them to match the ogres’ strength. They could never do that, nor did they intend to. Humblebag tugged at a crooked tooth while Bloatan scratched at a boil that was located directly between his eyes. Orcs seldom wash. And they don’t brush their teeth, which means they’ve always got some terrible ache. And that pain usually leads to rage. So it’s never a good idea to cross an orc, especially when he’s got explosive acne or a case of worm tooth.
The orcs had all that and more. Their rage spilled over as they tore banners from walls and roots from trees. None of it was terribly impressive, but they still had me beat.
I shook my head, and Bob called up the final group. “Ophelia, Cassandra, Daedalus! Bring out the goblins!” he cried as the last of the entrants came forward. The goblins are a lanky folk. You won’t find any muscle heads in their ranks. They’ve got arms like noodles and sticks for legs. So they don’t bother with displays of strength or rage. That’s not their thing. These guys are the cooks and tinkerers of the grim world. They fix what the ogres smash and clean what the orcs won’t scrub. They’re workers, not warriors, but that doesn’t rule them out of the contests—not by a long shot. In fact, I think the competition category of Mayhem was invented just for them. I looked on as they loaded catapults with spoiled blood stew and lumps of fried mold. Then, before anyone could duck, hide, or find cover of any sort, they lobbed that gunk at the crowd. The stink was enough to silence even Bob, which was no small feat.
They’d managed to cover half the courtyard with their foul concoctions and caused a lot of mayhem in the process. I rolled my eyes and guessed the goblins would also rank ahead of me.
By the time the grimmies were done wiping the gunk from their faces, the ogres had finished judging the list. Bob went to the castle wall to nail it up, and all of us gathered around him. Everyone was eager to find their name and where they’d placed. Heck, even I was curious.
Actually, scratch that.
I was terrified. If I placed last, I worried they’d cut the Lord and just call me Dork from now on.
I mean, how much worse could things get for me?
SULLENDAY
I was almost certain I’d place last in the rankings. And since I didn’t feel like suffering THAT humiliation in front of everyone, I decided to wait until the courtyard was empty to check for my name. Unfortunately, each time some oaf found THEIR name, they’d cry out in anger and try to rip the list from the wall. A scuffle would break out, which would inevitably lead to more smashing and breaking of things. By the time the coast was clear and the last grimmie had left the yard, the sun had risen. Believe it or not, a new day had dawned.
So I finally made my
way over to the list.
Immediately, I skipped the upper half of the scroll. Those were always just orc and ogre names anyway. To find my rank, I went STRAIGHT to the bottom, where I found some witches and warlocks and a scattering of goblins. But I didn’t see MY name. I was a little confused, so I turned over the scroll. And that’s when I found it scrawled on the backside of the parchment, squeezed into the scroll’s lower corner, inked in letters so small I had to squint to read them.
I didn’t think it was possible to rank AFTER last place, but somehow I’d managed it. I was the son of the Dark Lord Who Vanished, the kid who was supposed to claim the mightiest throne in the grim world. But I couldn’t even impress a crowd of idiots.
This was pathetic.
My head was spinning, so I made my way toward the tower and my bedroom, where I could lie down and sleep off my latest humiliation.
I got about halfway there when an orc ran straight into me. He was clearly in a rush, which was kind of strange. Orcs don’t generally run or do anything in a hurry, not unless something’s terribly wrong. He had a message in his hand, and I guessed it was bad news.
“What’s with the letter?” I asked.
“Bat-t-t . . .” he stuttered.
“A battle?” I asked.
“Yes. Elves. The border. An attack!” he said. Then he held the scroll right in front of my face. It laid out the facts about a raid carried out by some elves. They’d attacked one of the orc towers at Hadrian’s Hedge, the seemingly impenetrable tangle of man-eating vines that protected the border between the grim folk and the faire. The elves had beaten down the gate, but when they got inside, the stink of the place overwhelmed them and they had to retreat. The orcs were calling it a victory for the grim folk, but that was a bit of a stretch. Bad hygiene isn’t a legitimate form of warfare.
But an attack on the hedge IS a legitimate act of war. The elves had broken our decade-long peace. The truce was over, broken, gone.
Confessions of a Dork Lord Page 1
