Confessions of a Dork Lord by Mike Johnston & Marta Altés

Author:Mike Johnston & Marta Altés
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2020-01-27T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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