Homerooms and Hall Passes

by Tom O'Donnell

  And with that, Vela the Valiant stood and left the video lab.

  “So . . . I guess I’ll do the Pledge of Allegiance, then?” said Olivia.

  A few moments later, Vela rejoined the party in the hallway.

  “Vela, you did not freeze!” said Thromdurr, cuffing her on the back.

  “No time for that,” said Vela. “To the Old Mall.”

  The party strode out the double doors of J. A. Dewar Middle School. As they crossed the school parking lot, there came a clattering sound from the bushes.

  “Guys,” said June, “what is that?”

  A skeleton, clad in tattered rags, barreled out of the underbrush toward the group. June shrieked. Thromdurr swung his new war hammer and missed. The other Bríandalörians paused for a moment, confused. They weren’t used to seeing the mighty berserker whiff.

  “Bah! The weight feels all wrong,” cried the barbarian. “The haft length is off!” He fumbled in his belt and produced the wooden head of Boneshatter II, which he started to screw into the croquet mallet’s shaft. Yet before he could finish, the skeleton tackled him to the ground. With a hiss, it opened its bony jaws wide to take a bite out of Thromdurr’s neck.

  “Na lya’a’n ha’oi zaeny e phaesima’rn koih!” read Albiorix from his spellbook, while he focused his will and traced the secret sigil for flame with his right hand. A ball of fire erupted from his fingertips and hit the skeleton, exploding it in a hail of charred bones.

  “Whoa!” said June. “Albiorix, that was awesome! And terrifying! And awesome!”

  “Thanks,” said Albiorix, waving the smoke off his hand. “No time to celebrate. Look!”

  Five more skeletons shambled down the sidewalk toward them.

  “The whole town is crawling with Zazirak’s vile minions,” said Vela, drawing her sword.

  Sorrowshade nocked two arrows at once, and let fly—the lead pair of skeletons fell before they reached the heroes. Vela blocked a bony swipe with her shield and replied by chopping off a skeletal arm. Albiorix froze a fourth with an ice spell, giving Devis an opening to dart in and shatter it with his dagger. As the one-armed skeleton swung at Vela with its other fist, a blow from Boneshatter II sent its head clattering down the street like the world’s most macabre croquet ball.

  “You guys don’t mess around,” said June.

  Yet no sooner had they finished off the last of the undead band, than they realized that a dozen more were converging on them from every direction.

  Sorrowshade sighted one and felled it at a hundred yards with a well-placed arrow to the eye socket.

  “They just keep coming,” said the gloom elf, drawing another arrow from her quiver.

  “THEN BY THE GREAT SKY BEAR, I WILL SMASH THEM ALL!” roared Thromdurr, holding Boneshatter II aloft.

  “No!” cried Albiorix. “This is just a distraction to slow us down so Zazirak can finish the summoning ritual.”

  “We must stop him!” cried Vela. “Onward, friends!”

  And the heroes started to run toward the Hibbettsfield Galleria.

  As Hall Master, it is your duty to present fresh challenges to your players! Pop quizzes, lazy lab partners, and malicious gossip all represent unexpected difficulties in the lives of middle schoolers. No need to go easy on your group. The threat of losing a beloved character is actually what keeps the game interesting. . . .

  —Excerpt from The Hall Master’s Guide

  DARK CLOUDS SPUN IN a churning cyclone over the Old Mall. Green lightning crackled in the sky, and the six heroes slipped inside. As they made their way toward the second-floor fountain (near the Cheesecakery), the air grew thick and sulfurous, and soon it was impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. Through the greenish haze, it was June who somehow spotted him first.

  “Look, it’s Vice Principal Flanagan!” she whispered.

  The warlock Zazirak hunched over a glowing sigil inscribed on the floor of the mall with the Malonomicon spread open before him. He read a continuous stream of sorcery in Fiendish, the unholy language of demons: “Orek Crovsar ek umrae kur Eqer, kur vesr sra Saekburk raraem va com coks Svarrk, omd vurd aqarae demd uk Eqer—”

  “Zazirak!” cried Vela. “Cease this madness at once!”

  “Huh?” cried Zazirak, apparently startled. “You lot again? But I thought you all left!”

  “We just couldn’t stay away,” said Devis. “We had to come back and try that soft pretzel.”

  “And pummel you to within an inch of your life, you naughty necromancer!” said Thromdurr.

  “Ah, well. I guess you got me,” said Zazirak with a shrug. “I know when I’m beaten. Okay, I surr— Ars raz ilai si’arras nau. Giurr zi’as? Yai’su zi’asi’asilus!”

  “Tsag’h mog toimt go dop!” cried Albiorix, instantly countering the mass paralysis hex with a ward of protection from his own spellbook.

  Zazirak’s curse fizzled out.

  “Huh,” said Zazirak. “Not quite as weak as I thought. Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need spells. When Azathor the Devourer arrives, you will be consumed like everything else.”

  “But why?” said Albiorix.

  “Why?” said Zazirak, now utterly confused.

  “Why are you doing this?” said Albiorix. “Why are you summoning a demon lord to destroy this world? Why?”

  Zazirak paused, then frowned. He started to say something, but instead chewed his lip for a while. He chuckled. “You know, to be honest, I’ve never really thought much about why. I mean, I am an evil warlock, right? So it makes sense that I would want to do something like this. But that’s sort of a chicken-egg thing, isn’t it? Truly, I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it’s too late to get introspective about it now. Instead I think I’ll finish this dark ritual while you battle my skeletal hordes.”

  “Skeletal hordes?” said Vela.

  And from out of the greenish haze, the party was set upon by a legion of undead warriors. The arrows of Sorrowshade the gloom elf flew fast, and every one of them found its mark. Vela the Valiant, Knight of the Golden Sun, struck down many with her sword while fending off others with her shield. Heedless of danger, Thromdurr, son of Heimdurr, berserker of the Sky Bear clan, waded into the thick of the battle, wielding Boneshatter II like a force of nature; while Devis, the wily thief, fought with trickery and cunning to dispatch his enemies. And Albiorix the wizard hurled fireballs and lightning bolts across the field of battle at his foes. Even June Westray, untrained in combat, managed to choose a lucky moment to shove a distracted skeleton, so that its head got stuck in the balcony railing and it was effectively taken out of the fight.

  Yet all the while Zazirak incanted double time, hoping to finish the infernal ritual to summon Azathor the Devourer before the last of his minions fell. At last, roaring as he shrugged off four skeletal foes, Thromdurr charged the warlock and delivered a crushing downward swing of his mallet to the top of Zazirak’s skull. The hammer blow was so powerful that it instantly knocked Myron Flanagan’s body unconscious. And Zazirak’s glowing eyes dimmed as he slumped to the ground. But the coup de grâce had come a moment too late. For the final words of the spell had been spoken.

  There was a boom like a thunderclap, so loud it seemed the whole world had torn itself asunder. Then the arcane sigil started to open.

  “What’s happening?” cried June.

  “Get back!” cried Vela.

  The fissure in the floor widened, and a plume of black smoke issued forth. And then a clawed hand the size of a couch gripped the edge. A colossal creature began to pull itself out of the hole.

  “Azathor the Devourer,” whispered Albiorix.

  It was a horrid, vaguely human-shaped thing with great black wings, hairy hoofed feet, a long spiked tail, and burning red eyes set in the head of a gigantic rodent. And as the heroes backed away, they had to admit that Zazirak had been right right: a mole-headed demon was scary. Terrifying, in fact.

  Azathor pulled himself out of the smoldering crack and stood to full height. The h
uge mole head nearly touched the mall ceiling twenty feet above them. The demon stretched its leathery wings and let out an unearthly bellow.

  “BACK TO THE THIRTEEN HELLS WITH YOU, MOLE DEVIL!” cried Thromdurr, who flew at the fiend, swinging Boneshatter II.

  Yet with a flick of his great clawed hand, Azathor—almost lazily—swatted the barbarian aside like an inconvenient insect.

  “May the Powers of Light guide my hand!” cried Vela as she charged.

  Azathor whirled and exhaled a blast of searing flame, stopping the paladin short. Vela was forced to dive behind her shield or be incinerated.

  There came the quiet twangs of Sorrowshade’s bowstring—thwip, thwip, thwip—yet lightning-quick Azathor somehow caught the three arrows in his fingertips. With a horrid smile, he snapped them like twigs.

  “Tyael ael e raekyntaetk ma’rn na’ phsh ha’oi!” incanted Albiorix from his spellbook, and a bolt of lightning leaped from his hand.

  But the demon lord raised his palm, and the wizard’s spell dissipated on contact with his flesh. An instant later, the same lighting bolt jumped back from Azathor’s hand at Albiorix. The wizard felt every muscle in his body seize an instant before he was racked with agonizing pain as the electricity coursed through him. His body jerked uselessly, and he could smell his own hair burning. At last Azathor dropped the spell, and Albiorix crumpled to the ground.

  “ANYONE ELSE?” said Azathor in a voice that sounded like ten thousand bones being snapped at once. The demon fixed his horrible gaze upon Devis, who crouched behind an information kiosk, dagger in hand.

  “HOW ABOUT THEE?”

  “Nah, I’m . . . I’m good,” sputtered the thief, lowering his blade.

  “THEN YOUR PATHETIC RESISTANCE HAS FAILED!” bellowed Azathor. “AND I SHALL SAVOR YOUR TERROR AS YE WITNESS ME DEVOUR THIS WORLD!”

  With his massive hand, Azathor ripped up a nearby coin-operated massage chair and shoved it into his mouth, whole. And as he chewed and swallowed, the demon’s great bulk swelled, and his head now touched the ceiling. He turned and and picked up a decorative palm tree—planter and all—and stuck it into his maw. Again, he ate it and grew larger.

  As Albiorix watched from the ground, his ears still ringing from the lightning bolt, he had a terrible vision: Azathor the Devourer, a demon the size of a mountain, impervious to any attack, striding across the landscape and consuming everything in his path—cars, trees, houses, people—and growing larger still. . . .

  Suddenly the wizard remembered something he’d read in the Malonomicon.

  “Wait!” cried Albiorix.

  Azathor paused. He dangled Myron Flanagan’s limp body like an hors d’oeuvre over his open mouth.

  “Great Azathor the Devourer, Lord of Hunger, Jaws of Destruction, we invoke the ancient custom of the infernal bargain,” said Albiorix, pulling himself to his feet. “We ask a boon of thee.”

  “A BOON?” Azathor dropped Flanagan and laughed, an awful rumbling sound. “FOR A BOON YE MUST BEST ME IN A CONTEST. AND IF YE LOSE, YOUR SOULS ARE MINE.”

  “We accept the terms, O evil one,” said Albiorix with a bow.

  “THEN WHAT SHALL BE THE NAME OF THE CONTEST?” said Azathor. “AND WHO SHALL BE YOUR CHAMPION?”

  “Uh,” said Albiorix. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Hmm. Yep. Okay. I’m going to have to get back to you on that one. Just give me a moment to confer with my companions—”

  “TRY NOT MY PATIENCE, MORTAL!” roared Azathor.

  “Two minutes,” said Albiorix.

  Azathor crossed his arms. That party regrouped and spoke in hushed voices. June had been stunned speechless. Perhaps this was not how she had imagined her first adventure?

  “Albiorix,” said Vela, “you’ve offered up our souls to a demon, a fate worse than death. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I have a plan,” said Albiorix, “I mean, sort of. I have twenty percent of a plan. Let’s say fifteen percent. Look, one of us just has to, uh, beat him at something. That’s all.”

  His companions stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Beat him?” said Devis. “He’s twenty-five feet tall. He’s invulnerable. He can literally catch lightning bolts!”

  “I know, but it’s our only shot,” said Albiorix. “So, who wants to, uh, be the champion?”

  Thromdurr shook his head. “Though I am perhaps the obvious choice, I cannot hope to win a contest of might against that . . . thing.”

  “And if he can snatch my arrows right out of the air,” said Sorrowshade, “his reflexes are superior to mine.”

  “Personally, I don’t think there’s any tricking him,” said Devis. “Not confident he’d fall for the kobold in a knapsack.”

  “And in a battle of wills,” said Vela, “I’m afraid mine would break first.”

  Albiorix nodded. “Indeed, it is also clear to me that in any sort of magical duel, I would be defeated.”

  “So it’s hopeless, then?” said Sorrowshade. “Well, at least a lifetime of pessimism finally paid off.”

  “No,” said Albiorix. “There’s got to be something. Something that one of us is the best at. Something that—”

  “YOUR TWO MINUTES ARE UP,” said Azathor. “NAME YOUR CHAMPION!”

  “Uh . . . ,” said Albiorix.

  This whole thing was his fault. He knew that, of course. He’d messed around with the Malonomicon and brought Zazirak back from the dead, and this was the final result: the end of all things. The wizard looked into the battle-stained faces of each of his companions: a barbarian, a thief, a paladin, an assassin, and a girl who had somehow decided he was worth helping, even though she didn’t know him.

  These were his best friends in the world, in two worlds, and he’d just wagered their souls. How could the party possibly hope to beat a demon lord from the pits of the abyss? Yet at that moment an idea came to him. And a smile spread across the wizard’s face as he turned to address the demon.

  “Our champion,” said Albiorix, “shall be June Westray.”

  “It shall?” said June, suddenly jolted out of her stupor.

  “It shall?” said Vela.

  “It shall,” said Albiorix.

  “SO BE IT,” said Azathor. “AND WHAT SHALL BE THE NAME OF THE CONTEST?”

  “The name of the contest,” said Albiorix, “shall be Oink Pop.”

  Like any good heroic tapestry or bard’s song, all Homerooms & Hall Passes campaigns must eventually come to an end. But the good news is that the next nonadventure is only as far away as your imagination. If you’re looking for more inspiration, check out the dozens of published scenarios—such as The Term of Tedium, The Field Trip of Disappointment, and The Sameness of Summer Vacation—available from your friendly local book merchant.

  —Excerpt from The Hall Master’s Guide

  “OINK POP?” SAID AZATHOR. “WHAT IS OINK POP?”

  “It’s just this game on my phone,” said June in a barely audible voice.

  “SO BE IT,” said Azathor. “THE NAME OF THE CONTEST SHALL BE OINK POP. NOW BRING ME A ‘PHONE’!”

  The heroes looked at each other. Devis crept forward and handed Azathor his smartphone.

  “It’s the icon that looks like a little pig,” whispered Devis.

  “The terms of the contest are this,” said Albiorix. “Whoever holds the high score after one round shall be the victor. If it be Azathor the Devourer, then our souls are forfeit. But if it be June Westray, then our boon shall be granted. Do you accept the terms?”

  “Um,” said June. “Okay.”

  There came a horrible sound, low and rumbling. It was Azathor laughing. “AGREED!” said the mole-headed demon. “YET KNOW THIS: IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS, NONE HAVE EVER BESTED ME. I ATE THEIR VERY SOULS!”

  The adventurers all looked at each other. June pulled out her phone and rolled her shoulders and stretched her fingertips.

  “Competitors, are you ready?” said Albiorix.

  “I AM READY!” said Azathor.

&n
bsp; “Sure. I guess,” said June.

  “Then let the contest begin!”

  The game’s zany theme song started to play. June swallowed and selected “New Game” from the menu. The Bríandalörians crowded around their champion to watch her play.

  A grid of multicolored, adorably round pigs bounced onto the screen and a sixty-second countdown timer appeared. And quicker than the eye could follow, June tickled three of the pigs in a row, causing them to laugh-burst away. The words “TRIPLE TICKLE!” ricocheted across the screen. And they had barely faded before she got a PORCINE POWER POPPER! bonus worth 9,000 points, quickly followed by a RIGHTEOUS RAINBOW! for an additional 6,000. June was in the zone now, popping virtual pigs with the ease of a master, sometimes using three or four fingers at once. Her score climbed ever higher. There were ten seconds left now, and she somehow cleared the entire board in a single tickling motion, earning a rare OINKOCALYPSE! for 80,000 points. Eight . . . seven . . . six . . .

  “WAIT. HANG ON,” said Azathor. “I’M SUPPOSED TO . . . TICKLE THEM?”

  The timer buzzed. The round was up. Final score: June Westray, 480,925; Azathor the Devourer: 950.

  The heroes burst out in a cheer. Albiorix clapped. Thromdurr cuffed June on the back. Devis turned a somersault. Vela did a little dance. Even Sorrowshade beamed.

  “NOOOOO!” roared Azathor, punching his fist through a nearby column. “YOU FAILED TO EXPLAIN THE RULES OF THIS STUPID GAME TO ME!”

  “Um,” said June. “You didn’t ask?”

  “SILENCE!” said Azathor. The demon turned and exhaled a jet of fire that completely destroyed the Cheesecakery. “THAT WAS A PRACTICE ROUND.”

  “Hey, come on,” said Albiorix. “You know that wasn’t the de—

  “PRACTICE ROOOOOOUND!”

  “It’s okay, Albiorix,” said June. She turned to the demon. “Sure. That was a practice round.”