“In order to get you down here, I had to put a Time Freeze up there,” says Professor Nog and points up with his talon in the general direction of the WarWings campus, which is several thousand leagues above us. “We don’t have much time to discuss your grade. Five minutes tops.” He nods at the timer where the sand in the top glass container is streaming down into the bottom glass container. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. So let’s get started,” he says. “Please lie down on the couch over there.”
I peer across the room and see the couch he’s talking about and it sure doesn’t look like anybody’s idea of a good time. This hideous couch is made of flaming hot coals.
“Make yourself comfortable, Gork,” says Professor Nog, grinning a beakful of fangs.
Now I’m not exactly sure why I do what I do next. That’s the way it is with me sometimes. I guess the pressure of being in the Underworld just gets to me and I sort of lose my mind. Goodness knows I wouldn’t be the first dragon to do so down here.
Anyway, I take one more look at this demented couch made of flaming hot coals and shout, “Are you crazy? Heck no, I’m not getting on that couch! I’m on my Queen Quest! Maybe some other time, Professor!”
Then I turn and bound off on my green webbed feet and get a running start and leap into the air and flap my wings—thwack-thwack—and try to fly away as fast as I can.
Which isn’t very fast, it turns out.
Because one of Nog’s pets, a giant red demon, rises up out of the floor in front of me and roars a mouthful of flames. Now the weird part is this demon is two-dimensional. He’s flat as a sheet of paper, but that doesn’t prevent him from being insanely scary.
And at the last second, I recognize the demon as that former dragon Torp I was telling you about. The maniac who had the gall to cut up and spit lavaloogies in Professor Nog’s class.
My God, how he has changed.
Well I guess that answers the question as to what Professor Nog does with his delinquent students. He turns them into pets.
If you consider a demon a pet, I don’t know.
Now I’m sure not proud to have to be telling you this, but when that hideous demon Torp pops up right in front of my face, well I just shriek and faint in midflight.
[ 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.