The Headmaster of Doom Read online

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  CONTENTS

  The Dark Lord Speaks

  Detention, Darklands Style

  Evil Comes Home to Roost

  Bad News Travels Fast

  A Plan Full of Holes

  No Good Deed Ever Goes Unpunished

  Virtue’s Journey

  Scout and About

  The Face of Evil

  Breakfast of Champions

  Kidnapped!

  Fools Rush In

  Where Angels Do Not Fear to

  Tread

  Carried Away

  Mother Knows Best

  Tea With Mummy

  Head Boy

  Delivered from Evil?

  A Dark Horse

  Really? That’s the Plan?

  By Invitation Only

  Tea For Two

  Storm in a Teacup

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  If you liked this, you’ll love…

  Sneak Peek

  It’s possible that – incredible to imagine – some worthless humans may not have read my previous works of astonishing magnificence, to wit, Dark Lord: The Teenage Years, Dark Lord: A Fiend in Need and Dark Lord: Eternal Detention (yes, that’s right – Eternal Detention). If you are one of those worthless humans, here is a summary of previous events:

  Once I was a mighty Dark Lord, but I was defeated in battle and exiled to your wretched planet by that tiresome meddling Wizard, Hasdruban the White. Even worse than that (I know, how could it be?) he cursed me into the body of a puny human boy child! I tried to tell everyone I was the Dark Lord but, being stupid humans, you all thought I said ‘Dirk Lloyd’ instead, and that became my name. Being sickening do-gooders (mostly), you humans forced me to go to school, and live with foster parents. Sigh.

  At least I made some friends – or lackeys, as I prefer to call them – Sooz and Christopher.

  At first, I considered conquering your wretched planet, but that didn’t work out, so I turned my evil genius to the task of getting home to the Darklands, where I belonged. I cast a great spell to send me back, but it went wrong (not my fault, of course!) and instead of propelling me back to the Darklands, it sent my friend Sooz…

  Dark Lord: A Fiend in Need tells the story of how Sooz arrived in the Darklands. Amazingly, she was able to take over the Iron Tower and become the Moon Queen of the Darklands, where she claims that she ruled in peace and harmony, making new friends and allies. Bah, more do-gooding nonsense! Hasdruban didn’t care either – he tricked Sooz and imprisoned her in his White Tower. Not content with that, he also sent the White Witch, disguised as a nanny, to finish me off on earth. But me and my friend lackey Chris turned the tables on her, and found a way to get to the Darklands.

  It was tough but we bluffed our way into the White Tower and freed Sooz, but I had to cast a very dangerous spell to get her out, and it looked like I was going to die! Sooz and Chris had to give me the Essence of Evil, the black goo I’d coughed up when I first fell to earth. It turned me back into a twelve-feet-tall, hoofed and horned Dark Lord, which was great! It was good to be home, as it were. But then I just got more and more… well, evil, until finally I lost it completely and locked Chris and Sooz in the Dungeons of Doom. (Not my best moment, I admit.) Anyway, Chris and Sooz used a special magic crystal to propel us all (including the monster Gargon and the Paladin Rufino) back to earth. Along the way, I turned back into the boy Dirk, coughing up the Evil Essence once more, which was a relief, really, I can tell you – it’s such an effort to be evil. Anyway, we were home, and all seemed well – except that the White Wizard had got there before us, taken over the school and made himself the new headmaster, Dr Hasdruban…

  He then proceeded to make my life miserable with constant detentions, kidnapping plans, assassination attempts and so on. He even brought the Black Hag – a hideous, poison-nailed witch from the Darklands – over to murder me!

  But then the White Witch realised I wasn’t really the bad guy any more – Hasdruban was. She helped us get back to the Darklands to steal the Black Hag’s Tears – said to give any who drank a Tear a terrible kind of empathy (it’s complicated). Along the way, Sooz got turned into a mighty Vampire Queen! I preferred her like that but my friend lackey Chris said we had to ‘rescue’ her. Bah, whatever. Anyway, we saved her, stole one of the Hag’s Tears and returned to earth. I tricked Hasdruban into taking the Tear and he suddenly became all nice and sympathetic! He’s a kindly old fellow now, and one of the best headmasters we’d ever had. Who’d’a thought it?

  Now everything’s ‘hunky dory’, as you witless humans say.

  Or is it?

  ‘AAAaaaarghhhh!’ screamed Agrash as he plummeted into the vast, black pit. His old friend, Skabber Stormfart, had ignored his pitiful cries for mercy and with a whispered ‘Sorry, mate’ had thrown him in anyway,

  Agrash smashed into the bottom of the pit and lay there for a moment, breathing in the pain. Thankfully, something had broken his fall. It hurt, but no bones seemed broken and he was still alive. He felt around. He’d landed on a pile of old straw and dirty clothes, a heap of discarded Orc and Goblin army uniforms, by the looks of them – or rather the smell of them. He got to his feet. It was dark, but not completely. There was light from a nearby lamp resting on some kind of table. Agrash made his way through the piles of old clothes that littered the floor. The table was actually a desk and a chair. Yes, a desk. Just like a schoolboy’s desk back on earth. Agrash sat upon it. On the desk in front of him was a sheaf of papers and a pencil – a pencil from earth.

  On top of the sheaf was a note, written in thin, scratchy-looking letters, as if a spider had dipped its feet in ink and scuttled across the page. It read:

  AGRASH SNOTRIPPER

  Your punishment for your gross insubordination and sending a message out of class will be:

  1. Imprisonment in the black pit of a thousand lines

  2. Writing out one thousand times: ‘I will not disobey the true Dark Lord or send messages in class’

  A drip of snot fell off the edge of Agrash’s improbably long nose and splashed on to the paper, leaving a green-tinged stain.

  ‘Oops!’ said Agrash, trying to rub it off with his sleeve.

  Agrash reviewed his sentence. Imprisonment and a thousand lines. At least it wasn’t a death sentence, as he’d been expecting. The trouble was that it was ambiguous. Did it mean imprisonment until he’d written out his one thousand lines, after which he’d be released? Or imprisonment and one thousand lines, in which case who knew when he’d be released?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Agrash was about to begin writing out his lines when he heard a snorting whimper from nearby. He looked over. Sitting on a tiny stool in front of a little desk was the hulking form of a seven-foot, scaled and fanged demon with wings, tiny red eyes and big taloned hands, trying to hold on to his little pencil. His wings had been padlocked together, so he could not fly.

  It was Gargon – Dread Gargon, the Hewer of Limbs and Captain of the Legions of Dread, the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant. The original Dark Lord, Dirk’s most loyal servant, that was. And here he was, crying in the dark. Agrash made his way over.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gargy?’ said Agrash in his squeaky Goblin voice.

  Gargon turned to look at Agrash, his red eyes even redder with tears. ‘Agrash, old friend, is good to see you,’ rasped Gargon in a voice like shattered pebbles.

  ‘What happened?’ said Agrash.

  ‘That new Dark Lord, he try tell me what to do, but I refuse, I stay loyal to Dirk!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, brains were never your strong point, were they, Gargy?’ said Agrash.

  ‘Maybe – but you here too,’ s
aid Gargon.

  ‘Ah, yes… Good point!’ said Agrash.

  ‘Dark Headmaster throw me into pit and give me one thousand lines. Say he not release Gargon until I finish punishment!’ said Gargon.

  ‘Well, that’s not so bad!’

  ‘’Cep’ Gargon…’

  ‘Except Gargon what?’ said Agrash.

  ‘Gargon not able to read. Or write… So Gargon trapped here forever!’

  ‘Ah, of course! Hmm… I see. Well, don’t worry, Gargy, I can write them out for you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gargon, brightening up a little. Well, inasmuch as a seven-foot tall, winged demon thing could brighten up.

  ‘Sure – you see, I think we’re going to be stuck down here together for quite a while,’ said Agrash.

  After all, they were in detention, Darklands style…

  The Dark Lord paced slowly down the Great Hall of Gloom towards the Throne of Skulls. He was at least twelve feet tall, but bony and narrow. As he walked, his long, thin legs cracked and clicked every time he bent a knee. His long, ragged black cloak hung down his back like tattered wings and on his head was a flat, black hat, like an old-fashioned headmaster’s mortarboard. In one hand he held a long, curved cane that he swished and swooshed around as if ever eager to beat someone with it. The cane was black and shiny, like polished ebony.

  As he walked on, lamps burst into flame on the pillars lining the way. The light revealed ranks of Goblin soldiers lining the route, dressed…well, dressed in shorts and little caps, each marked with the symbol of their Household Legion. They wore what looked like school blazers but they were made of hardened leather. At their belts were outsized schoolboy catapults, used to hurl pebbles and stones that could be as deadly as a rock from a sling at close range. They also carried short stabbing swords that looked like nothing more than schoolboys’ steel rulers, but with edges sharpened to deadly effect. They stared straight ahead, fearful of this new Dark Lord’s wrath and the strokes of his terrible black cane, hoping he would not notice them as he passed.

  His gait was strange and ungainly, his head bobbing up and down in time with the popping and cracking of his knees. Ahead, the throne loomed out of the gloom – the Throne of Skulls.

  As the Dark Lord neared, the skulls began to wail and screech, like lost souls forever trapped in a lightless Hades. The Dark Lord ascended the dais that led up to the throne and sat upon it, and the skulls moaned a low moan of sonorous despair. As he sat, a figure emerged from behind the throne to stand just below him, taking her place on his left hand side. She was dressed in long, ragged black lace, with a strange, cobwebbed black headdress, a ripped-up black veil, and arm-length tattered black velvet gloves. Her fingers ended in long, iron talons dripping with venom. It was the Lady Grieve, also known as the Black Hag, and the deadliest witch to ever walk the Darklands.

  ‘Greeting, Deputy Headmistress,’ said the Dark Lord, in a cracked voice – a voice that sounded as if it were ever balancing on the edge of total madness.

  ‘Greetings, Dark Headmaster,’ said the Black Hag with a nod of her veiled head, her voice like dry sand running through an hourglass.

  The Dark Lord looked up – his eyes were as black as the blackest night, his face long and thin and gaunt, with an elongated, bony chin that protruded down over his neck. His face was sickly pale, but the chin was red and raw.

  ‘Where is my Head Boy?’ said the Dark Lord.

  ‘I’m right ’ere, Headmaster,’ said a large Orc as he stepped up to the throne. He was dressed as the others, in cap, armoured blazer and shorts, save that he also wore a cape.

  ‘Report card, please, Skabber,’ said the Dark Lord. (For the Head Boy was indeed Skabber Stormfart, Champion Orc of the Darklands.)

  ‘Yes, sir, here you go!’ He handed a sheet of paper to the Dark Lord…

  And gulped.

  The Dark Lord began to read.

  ‘Agrash has been sent to the Pit of a Thousand Lines for punishment – good, good,’ said the Dark Lord. ‘He’s still loyal to that dreadful boy, Dirk Lloyd, isn’t he? Well, he’ll learn the price of talking back to the teachers. Wait a minute… No, no, you don’t spell it like that, boy! And this grammar here, it’s awful…’

  Skabber blinked up at the Dark Lord. ‘I’m sorry, Dark Headmaster, but Agrash… he was the only one that could write proper, sir!’

  ‘You ignorant boy! If you weren’t the best bully I’ve ever had, I’d cane you myself! Now get out of my sight and fetch me the Lamia, Lucina!’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir!’ said Skabber.

  He hurried away as fast as he could, peering back over his shoulder to check the Dark Lord’s cane was still by his side.

  The Dark Lord put a hand up to his chin and stroked it, a movement eerily similar to the way his nemesis, Dirk Lloyd, did it – except that as soon as he’d begun, the Dark Headmaster winced in pain, for his chin was red and raw and sore.

  He put his hands down on the armrests of his throne. The skulls wailed, heralding a speech, and the Dark Lord called out in a loud voice, addressing all the assembled Orcs and Goblins.

  ‘Listen Goblin girls and boys! I have reorganised the school…err…the army. Instead of regiments, you will arrange your troops according to these houses: Telling Off to Death House, the House of Doom, 666 of the Best House, Sharpened Pencils of Megadeath House, and Black Hag House.’

  ‘Yes, Headmaster of Doom!’ chorused the assembly.

  ‘Each house will have a House Master, to be determined by me, and also Black Prefects, to be chosen by the House Master or Mistress.’

  Something began to slither its way towards the Throne of Skulls. A large serpent came into view, its snake body undulating as it drew closer. But instead of a snake’s head, it had the head and torso of a woman – a beautiful woman with long dark brown hair and grey-green eyes.

  ‘You summoned me, Dark Headmaster,’ said the snake woman in a rich voice. She was a Lamia, a special monster that was half human, half gigantic snake. And if that wasn’t horrible enough, she also had the power to mimic the form of others, to appear as she wished to the beholder.

  ‘Ah, welcome, Lucina the Lamia. I have a task for you!’ said the Dark Lord.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said the Lamia.

  ‘Can you take on the form of the White Witch, Hasdruban’s deputy?’

  ‘Oh yes, my Dark Headmaster, yes indeed,’ said Lucina, and she began to change shape. Soon she wore the form of the White Witch – long white hair, pale alabaster skin, eyes so grey they were almost white…and no eyebrows. She could mimic clothes too – long white robes, trimmed with white lace and a white veil.

  ‘Ah yes, a perfect likeness. Hasdruban won’t be able to tell the difference, will he?

  ‘No, my Dark Lord and Headmaster,’ said Lucina. Unfortunately, Lucina couldn’t mimic voices – but that didn’t matter because the White Witch was mute: she never spoke. The witch communicated instead with little notes.

  ‘Excellent. Now go and kidnap the old fool. Lure him into a trap and then bring him back here. I think it’s time he was given lodgings in the Dungeons of Doom!’

  Dave the Storm Crow squawked in pain as he crash-landed on to Dirk’s desk in a flurry of dust and feathers. Dirk recoiled in shock. Behind him, in the middle of the room, a dark opening in the very fabric of space itself closed up with a gloopy pop.

  The Crow bumbled to its feet, shaking its head groggily and flapping its wings in indignation. Out fell a little pebble. Dirk frowned. It looked like Dave had been hit by a small stone, such as might have been fired from a schoolboy’s catapult. But that must have happened in the Darklands, just before the Crow entered the portal between the worlds on its way here to earth. Who would dare to shoot at the Dark Lord’s messenger, his Harbinger of Doom?

  Dirk held the tiny stone up to the light. It had been engraved with words in the Black Tongue, the language of the Darklands used by Goblins and Orcs and a host of other even more unsavoury creatures.

  �
�Eat it!’ read the message.

  Typical Orcish humour, thought Dirk, with an appreciative grin. Then his grin faded. Why would one of his minions try to shoot Dave?

  Not that they’d been very successful – the crow was a little groggy but other than that, he seemed fine. He squawked once more, blinking up at Dirk, his black eyes glowing and his feathers shining like coal. Dirk smiled down at him. Crows were so beautiful to look at, and he loved the sound of their desolate cry. This Crow was special. He was a Storm Crow and he could fly anywhere, even across dimensions, as long as he was bearing a message for the Dark Lord. After smoothing down Dave’s ruffled feathers and feeding him a worm or two from the jar on his desk (yes, Dirk kept a jar of worms labelled ‘Wormy Wyrms’), Dirk hurriedly unfurled the parchment message attached to the Crow’s leg. It was from his Goblin lieutenant, Agrash, who he’d left in charge of the Iron Tower of Despair back home in the Darklands. It had been weeks since Dirk had heard anything from home…

  Master, it is I, Agrash!

  Terrible news – he has seized control!

  There is a new Dark Lord in the Iron

  Tower and…wait…something comes…

  it’s… NOOOOO!

  Fly Dave, fly!

  Dirk frowned. He? Who is ‘he’ and how dare he seize my Iron Tower! he thought. He spoke out loud. ‘Doesn’t this fool know who I am? Whoever “he” is, he will suffer the full torment of my wrath!’

  Dirk surged to his feet and steepled his fingers together. ‘There can be only one Dark Lord and that Dark Lord is me!’ he said loudly. Then he put back his head and laughed his Evil Laugh.

  ‘MWAH, HAH, HAH!’ echoed around the room, out into the corridor beyond and throughout the rest of the house.

  ‘Oh do be quiet, Dirk!’ cried a voice from downstairs. ‘I’m trying to listen to The Archers!’

  Dirk raised his eyes and sighed. But then he scowled. He put a hand up to his chin. This was no laughing matter, it was serious. It sounded like his throne had been usurped. He had to act.