[ 20 ]

HERE IN THE UNDERWORLD, PROFESSOR NOG SHOWS ME MY MORTAL FORECAST

I have no idea how long I’m out.

It could be a few seconds.

Or it could be a thousand years.

I really wouldn’t know the difference.

That’s how hard I fainted.

Anyway, when I finally come to, I slowly stand up on my trembling haunches.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” says Professor Nog, still lounging in his LavaTub. “Well we sure are tightly wound today, aren’t we, Gork? Now go lie down on that couch over there so we can discuss your grade.”

I reach up and feel a giant knot on my scaly head. I’m woozy. I flick my powerstaff and a small mirror pops up in front of my beak and I study my scaly green reflection and see five nasty-looking slashes in my forehead from where that demon Torp has swiped me with his claws.

“Not bad, Professor,” I say, looking at the slashes. “These could make some nice scars.”

Now in case you don’t know, teenage dragons love scars.

We love scars even more than tattoos. Because there’s nothing that says mega WILL TO POWER like having a bunch of boss scars all over your scaly green ass, especially if you’ve got a fiendish story to go with your scars. And picking up some legit claw scars on your forehead while you’re down in the Underworld, well that’s something that’s guaranteed to get the dragonettes’ attention, if you know what I mean.

So I’m feeling better already.

“So far so good, Professor. What’s next on the agenda?” I say.

The professor looks at me and shakes his scaly green head like I’m an idiot. “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in, do you, son?” he says. “Have you looked at today’s Forecast? Have you even looked at The Digital Fire-Breather? Do you know what the Oddsmakers have your death at for today, Gork?”

Hearing this, I instantly feel the confidence drain right out of me. The Oddsmakers are a secret syndicate of blind faculty who keep track of which cadets are most likely to die on a given day. And my earholes start quivering at the mere mention of the Oddsmakers.

The Oddsmakers are able to look into the future and see multiple possibilities for how any circumstance could work out. And using some complex and mysterious system of metrics and analytics and talon throwing and ash reading, each morning the Oddsmakers give the Mortal Forecast. And each morning they post these results up on The Digital Fire-Breather.

How could I forget to check the Mortal Forecast this morning? You idiot!

I guess with it being Crown Day and all, it must’ve slipped my mind to click to the back of The Digital Fire-Breather and check. Plus I was probably so busy reading that post about Dr. Terrible’s disappearance that I’d been sort of distracted.

Now Professor Nog flicks his powerstaff and a colorful graph image of the Oddsmakers’ Mortal Forecast appears in the air. And above the graph I see my name in bold red letters. And there’s a diagonal slash through my name, as if I’ve already been crossed off the List of the Living.

“Read it and weep, Cadet Gork. 99.9% chance of you dying today,” says Professor Nog. “You’ve got a 0.1% chance of making it through Crown Day alive! Down here when a dragon only has a 0.1% chance of living, that means it’s pretty much game over. There’s already a nest down here with your name on it.”

Now if you want to know the truth, the tone of Nog’s voice is seriously getting under my scales. It really pisses me off. Which, like I mentioned before, is a stupid thing to do. To get pissed off at Nog.

“With all due respect, sir. So! Freaking! What!” I shout. “And I sure don’t see how you dragging me down here into the Underworld is increasing my chances of staying alive! I mean really, is that the wisest course of action? On the day when I have a 0.1% chance of survival? Are we not tempting fate here a little bit? Heck, why not just finish me off? Have you forgotten that it’s Crown Day, sir? Don’t you think I have better things to do than to waste my time here among the deadlings and demons and ghostlords and whatnot? And how do you ever get a moment of sleep or peace down here?! All this moaning from these disembodied voices and phantoms and all! It’s giving me a damn headache, is what it’s doing! Couldn’t you just tell these things to shut up for once?! I mean seriously, doesn’t all this hideous moaning and ghastly screaming sometimes just give you the creeps?!”

Then, because I’m suddenly terrified I might’ve offended old Nog, I add, “Sir.”

“Don’t be a fool,” growls Professor Nog. “Haven’t you learned anything in my class this semester? The closer you come to death, the greater your chance of surviving. In order to live, you’ve got to bleed.” He flaps his wings and growls, “Besides, today I’m going to give you information that might save your life.”

Great. I sure hope this has something to do with me getting Runcita to be my Queen.

“Like what information, sir?”

Professor Nog locks his cloudy yellow eyes on mine. “When you want to rule over a foreign land,” he says, “you must first offer it a drop of your blood. Then wait to see if the land gives you its blessing in the form of a sacred bud.”

Old Nog is really pissing me off now. With his mystic mumbo jumbo.

I’m starting to see lava.

Be cool. Be cool.

Remember you’re in the Underworld.

Nog here is the only way out.

“What in the heck are you talking about, sir?” I say. “And what land am I going to want to rule over anyway? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m still on my Queen Quest. Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves, sir?”

Because Professor Nog is dead, he can see into the future. And he’s always giving us cadets little helpful bits of advice. I mean he can’t see into the future like the Oddsmakers or anything, but the ancient Nog definitely has some supernatural vision.

Now I realize old Nog in all his royal crustiness is suddenly standing right in front of me. And him being this close to me is freaking me out. Besides, when had Nog climbed out of the LavaTub and come over to me? I hadn’t even noticed.

The dead can be real sneaky like that. Take it from me. The dead may not be much in the talon-eye coordination department, but they are probably the sneakiest bastards you ever will come across. Because when it comes right down to it, you really can’t trust the dead any further than you can bury them.

“Am I correct in assuming that you want to live?” growls Professor Nog. “Because if so, then you’ll be glad my counsel is what I’m here to give. Or is death something you do not fear? Because trust me, Gork, I don’t have time to hold your talon here. Just follow my instructions and you might be OK, you may even manage to live through this day. Now when you come to the land over which you want to rule, give that land a drop of your blood. And then wait to see if the land gives you its blessing in the form of a sacred bud. Because take it from your old Professor Nog, this is the golden rule!”

The stuff Nog is saying to me right now is giving me a royal case of the creeps. Jabbering about my blood like that and all.

“Why don’t you give the land a drop of your blood, sir?” I say, snorting firebolts. “If it’s so dang important? I don’t see why it needs to be my blood that’s suddenly up for grabs!”

Professor Nog sighs and squirts blacksmoke out his nostrils. “Because there’s going to be a multitude of opportunities for you to die today,” he says. “Way too many for me to go over with you right now. But death is lurking around every corner for you today!”

“Death is lurking around every corner, sir? Give me a break. Aren’t you being a little melodramatic, sir?”

And just like that, Professor Nog reaches out with his index claw and touches my green scales and instantly I feel a chill pass through my chest and seep into my heart. And my heart stops beating and turns into a block of meat encased in ice. I squat staring at Nog with my beak hanging open.

“That, young Gork,” says Professor Nog, “is death. Now does that feel melodramatic to you?”

I reach up with my talon and feel my chest in horror.

No heartbeat.

I’m dead.

I knew it was coming, I mean that’s how the Time Freeze works. The dragon that’s extracted has to be dead for the majority of his time in the Underworld. But still.

I’m dead. I’m dead.

I can’t believe I’m actually dead right now.

Now Nog flicks his powerstaff and then my scaly green body lifts up off the ground and floats up into the air and soars across the room.

This is a horrid sensation.

To be dead, and to be floating around this lair like this.

And then, well, Professor Nog means to drop me smack-dab on top of that hideous couch made of flaming coals. But instead he drops me down on the floor right next to the couch. Like I said, because Nog is dead and over five thousand years old, he doesn’t exactly have the greatest talon-eye coordination.

Plunk.

I hit the ground on my back.

Yet I can tell by the way Nog is squatting there and staring in my direction that he doesn’t know he’s dropped me on the ground instead of the couch. And I feel kind of bad for him, if you want to know the truth. Without a doubt he is the crustiest professor I’ve ever had, but he means well, and I don’t want to embarrass him.

So, feeling like a royal chump, I quickly get up and lie down on the couch as if Nog had just dropped me on top of it.

I even cry out, “Ouch!”

Just to give the old bastard some satisfaction, make him think he still hasn’t lost his touch. I mean, you figure that’s the one thing that really haunts the dead. Wondering if they’ve still got what it takes. At least it would me. If I were permanently dead. I’m pretty sure when I’m permanently dead I’ll be the most insecure bastard in the whole damn Underworld.

Now as soon as my back hits the couch, these metal straps shoot out of it and strap my forelimbs and hind legs down.

Ouch.

This time it really does hurt. But of course I don’t let on that it hurts, because I don’t want to give this scoundrel the satisfaction. I strain against the clamps, but to no avail.

Lying there on the couch, I can feel my beak frozen in a horrified rictus of fear.

“Now that you’re comfortable and settled in,” he says, “let us discuss your final grade for the semester, Gork.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, cadet, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. And I know you’re going to be upset. But I’m going to have to give you an A. I really have no choice in the matter. I’m sorry to have to be telling you this.”

Holy crap. Do not lose your cool. Don’t explode right now.

First of all, you know the situation is bad if Nog feels like he has to apologize to you, because it’s against the law for a dragon to apologize. But I guess Nog isn’t worried about breaking the law, because he’s dead and all. Once you’re dead, I guess the law no longer really applies. Or maybe the dead have their own laws? I don’t know. And one thing’s for sure, I’m in no big hurry to find out.

Now if you’re a man-creature who’s reading this, then you need to know that the grading system for us dragons is pretty much the opposite of your grading system. Because at WarWings an A is the lowest grade you can receive, it means you’ve failed the course. Whereas an F is the highest grade you can receive. So our class valedictorian this year will be some dragon geek who received four years of straight Fs. And here Professor Nog is saying he’s going to give me an A for his Conquering and Ruling Over Demons course.

I am beyond outraged. I’m seeing lava.

Screw it! I’m sick of trying to keep my cool and being polite! This crusty fool has gone too far! I don’t care if he keeps my scaly green ass in the Underworld for all of eternity! I’m not going to sit here and listen to him try and cheat me out of my F!

“That’s crazy, sir!” I shout, snorting flamestreams. “I’ve performed well this semester! I figured I’d receive an F. What about all the demons I defeated last week in the fiery pit? You saw how I ripped all their arms off!”

“Yes I did,” says Professor Nog. “You were a true barbarian in the fiery pit. This much I will admit. And I relished the screams of those demons as you ripped off their arms. On that day you were the cadet who comported himself with the most charm. But unfortunately this vid clip from your lair came vis-à-vis one of my micro-drones. And as you can imagine, this behavior I cannot condone!”

For a dead dragon, this scoundrel still has some ruthless rhyme skills. I have to admit, old Nog has a real way with words.

Then Professor Nog flicks his powerstaff and a holovid appears in the air and as soon as I see what it is I feel my giant heart sink. Because the holovid has been shot using a hidden micro-drone in the top right corner of my lair, and the footage is a little blurry but there’s still no doubt about what it is you’re looking at. And in the vid clip I’m lying in my nest with my talons covering my scaly green face and I’m sobbing and bawling and snuffling something awful.

I instantly realize this footage was shot last week. Right after I’d returned to my lair from Professor Nog’s class on that day when I’d ripped those demons’ arms off. I’d felt terrible after doing it, if you want to know the truth. I couldn’t shake the sound of their horrifying screams out of my skull. The whole escapade had left me feeling super guilty and downhearted.

So I’d crawled into my nest and had a good cry.

This is a problem that’s dogged me for years now. The tears. Sometimes when I do something real vicious that shows off my WILL TO POWER, then later I’ll go back to my lair and put my scaly head in my talons and bawl my eyes out.

It’s despicable, I know. And I always wind up hating myself for it afterward.

During my weekly sessions out at the Institute, my grandpa is forever flapping his beak at me about how my crying is the primary weak spot in my otherwise promising career as an Intergalactic Conqueror. Not counting my HORN DENSITY & IMPALABILITY rank of course, which is RemedialGore.

But the tears, well I blame them on my heinous cares-too-much heart.

I mean my HEART MASS INDEX rank is an off the charts DangerouslyJumbo.

Seems like I can never pull off even the most minor of ruthless acts without my stupid heart getting in the way. And out at the Institute, Dr. Terrible has warned me on multiple occasions that if I’m not able to cure my crying jags then he’ll be forced to take more drastic measures, like surgically removing my tear ducts.