Homerooms and Hall Passes Read online

  Dedication

  For Suzanna and Rudy

  Maps

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Tom O’Donnell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Welcome to Homerooms & Hall Passes, the role-playing game of nonadventure! With this book (and a set of dice), you and your friends will unlock a strange new world of routine and boredom set in the fictional Realm of Suburbia. Imagine, if you will, a place without monsters, magic, treasure, elves, quests, or even, to be perfectly honest, much excitement at all. This place is called middle school. . . .

  —Excerpt from The Hall Master’s Guide

  FOUR YOUNG ADVENTURERS STOOD at the entrance of an ancient temple, carved into the cliffside. The weathered stone portico resembled the yawning maw of some huge predator. Beyond it, a stairway led down into blackness.

  “Gee, I wonder if this is the place,” said Devis, the thief.

  “Bah! Of course it is, tiny friend!” said Thromdurr, the barbarian, cuffing Devis on the back. “The gate to the Temple of Azathor is known to have the shape of a great and toothy beast! Like so!”

  “Yeah, no, this is obviously the evil temple. I was being witty,” said Devis. “Sometimes I feel like nobody in this adventuring party gets me.”

  “You can explain the joke at length later, and I’m sure we’ll all laugh and laugh,” said Vela the Valiant, paladin and leader of the band. “But first, the evil that lies beyond that gate must be vanquished!” She drew her longsword and pointed it skyward, perhaps holding the hero pose a moment too long.

  “You know, my old party had a bard,” said Devis. “That guy loved my one-liners. And he was a professional entertainer, so he knew real talent—”

  “Companions, are we prepared?” said Vela, sheathing her blade and cutting him off. “Rope? Rations? Ammunition for ranged weapons? Thromdurr, you were injured in the bandit ambush. You should drink a healing potion.”

  “’Tis but a scratch,” said Thromdurr, indicating the gaping wound across his back.

  “Drink one,” said Vela.

  Thromdurr did. His wound instantly closed.

  “Oh, and we must make sure to bring enough extra torches for this dungeon,” said Vela. “Can’t ever have too many torches.”

  Beside her, a shadowy elf in a black cloak seemed to melt out of the underbrush.

  “No need,” said Sorrowshade, the assassin. “The inky darkness is a gloom elf’s home. I have night vision.”

  “Yes, and that’s very well and good for you,” said Vela, “but the rest of us are humans. We can’t see in the dark.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not carrying any torches,” said Sorrowshade, crossing her arms.

  “Uh, if Sorrowshade doesn’t have to carry torches, then I’m not doing it either,” said Devis.

  “Again,” said Vela with a sigh, “we won’t be able to see.”

  “Not my problem that mortals have such poor eyesight,” said Sorrowshade.

  “Our eyesight is normal!” said Vela. “You just happen to have really good eyesight. Do you see the distinction?”

  “She’s right, though. Torches are lame,” said Devis. “Man, if Albiorix was here, he could just cast a light spell. Zorp!”

  Sorrowshade gave a faraway look. “If only such a spell could brighten the darkness . . . of my soul.” She turned away and dramatically threw up the cowl of her cloak.

  “Uh-huh,” said Vela. “Well, regardless, Albiorix isn’t here. He’s training with the Archmage today. So with regard to subterranean illumination, we’ll just have to make do without him.”

  “Look, Thromdurr is the strongest, right?” said Devis.

  “There can be no doubt,” said Thromdurr.

  “So how about the big guy just carries a bunch of torches in case we need them?” said Devis.

  “Bah! I am no simple torch boy!” said Thromdurr. “I am a berserker of Sky Bear clan!”

  “Fine, fine,” said Vela. “I’ll carry the extra torches. I swore a sacred oath. It is a paladin’s duty to shoulder the burden when the weak falter.”

  “Weak? Weak?” said Thromdurr. “Give me all the torches! Their puny weight is nothing to me! Pile them on my back! Strap them to my meaty haunches! The more torches, the better!”

  “Great idea, big guy,” said Devis. “Glad you thought of it.”

  “Into darkness, then?” said Sorrowshade.

  And so the four adventurers delved deep into the lost Temple of Azathor, facing abundant perils along the way: They defeated a bloodthirsty band of goblins, disarmed a fiendishly clever poison-dart trap, and discerned the answer to an ancient riddle that opened a magical door (the answer was “Love”). Many extra torches were burned as they made their way to the heart of the vile temple, far beneath the surface world. There they came to a grand hall of fallen columns and piled bones. Sickly green light lit the way ahead. The party doused their flames.

  “Look,” whispered Sorrowshade.

  On a crumbling altar, a skeleton in tattered robes crouched over a glowing sigil and muttered incantations from a large leather-bound tome.

  “Unless I am mistaken, that is the warlock Zazirak, back from the dead!” said Vela. “In life they called him the Scourge of Ta’shinn, the Blight of the Shield Coast, and the Slayer of Hotus the Good!”

  “And now he’s a skeleton guy,” said Devis, drawing his dagger, “which is even worse!”

  “We need a strategy,” said Vela. “Sorrowshade, you hide behind the fourth column to the right and hit him with a barrage of poison arrows, while I approach from the southwest, flanking him as I brandish my Holy Symbol. This should give Devis enough time to creep up from behind for a sneak attack, while Thromdurr—”

  “I WILL CRUSH YOU, BONE FACE!” bellowed Thromdurr as he sprang over a pile of rubble and charged at Zazirak, swinging his war hammer.

  “Or, yeah . . . we could just do that?” said Sorrowshade.

  “Stupid skin bags,” hissed Zazirak as he turned. “You dare interrupt the summoning ritual of Azathor the Devourer!”

  “We dare indeed, foul wight!” said Vela, drawing her sword.

  “Then I am happy to offer four ‘heroes’ as a blood sacrifice to the great mole-headed demon himself!” said Zazirak. “Arise, my minions! Alako nav navaavk!”

  With a flash of green light, the piles of bones around the room shuddered and leaped to their feet. They were now animate skeletal warriors, clad in rotting armor, carrying broken weapons.

  “Excuse me, did you say ‘mole-headed demon’? As in, lives in the ground and eats earthworms?” said Sorrowshade as she popped out from behind the fifth column to the left and—thwip!—deftly lodged an arrow in Zazirak’s skull.

  Zazirak staggered and gave a hollow laugh. “Ha! Don’t you know I am immune to p
oison damage?” He yanked the arrow out of his head. “And yes, according to the Malonomicon, Azathor the Devourer shall take the form of ‘a great and terrible beast with the face of a fearsome mole’!”

  “That’s kind of dumb, isn’t it?” said Devis. He ducked a blow from the rusty axe of a skeletal warrior. “Doesn’t sound scary.”

  “Is too scary!” said Zazirak. He hurled a green bolt of eldritch magic at Vela, who blocked it with her shield. “Your ignorance astounds. How could you not know Azathor has a mole head? What did you think the entrance of this temple was carved to look like?”

  “I THOUGHT IT WAS A DOG!” screamed Thromdurr as he bashed one of the skeletal warriors to bits with his hammer. “OR PERHAPS A BADGEEERRRR!” With a flying leap, he tackled two more off their bony feet.

  “Idiots!” cried Zazirak. “It is the visage of Azathor the Devourer, a demon of untold power who will consume this world at my command!”

  “Not if I can help it!” said Vela, holding up a gleaming sun-shaped emblem. “By all that is good and righteous, I call upon the Powers of Light and rebuke you, fiend!”

  Zazirak hissed and turned away. His shambling skeletal minions staggered and crumbled back to bones.

  “AND I ALSO REBUKE YOU!” said Thromdurr. “WITH MY BIG HAMMER!”

  The barbarian leaped forward and smashed the undead warlock. Zazirak flew across the room, hit a wall, and crumpled to the floor.

  There was an instant of silence. Then Zazirak cackled. “Fools. Death means nothing to one such as I. With the Malonomicon, I cannot be defeated!”

  “Uh, you mean this?” said Devis. He held up the warlock’s spellbook. Somehow, in the chaos of the fight, the thief had nabbed it.

  “Give the book to me!” said Zazirak, rising. His bony hands began to glow with arcane flame. “OR . . . YOU . . . SHALL—”

  “Burn?” said Sorrowshade as she stepped out from behind a scary mole statue and held a lit torch to the edge of Zazirak’s robe. With a whoosh, the undead warlock went up like dry kindling.

  “Okay, fine. Maybe torches were a good idea,” said Sorrowshade.

  “Guh,” said Devis, burying his face in his sleeve. “That burned-warlock smell is pungent.”

  “Another foe bested! Another dungeon delved! Victory is ours!” said Thromdurr. “Where is the treasure?”

  “Rest in peace, Hotus the Good,” said Vela, bowing her head. “At long last, your death has been aveng—”

  “Aw man, he only had thirty-five gold pieces,” said Devis as he rifled through Zazirak’s charred remains. “Plus what looks like a Ring of Turtle Speech. Anybody want a Ring of Turtle Speech? Lets you talk to turtles.”

  The other adventurers shook their heads.

  “Man, why did he even have that?” said Devis, who pocketed the ring. “Guess I can try to sell it. Maybe somebody will want it.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Sorrowshade.

  “I suppose we should destroy his spellbook too,” said Vela. “It seems pretty evil.” With two fingers, she picked up the tome that Zazirak had called the Malonomicon and dropped it into her pack.

  “Ugh. I thought this temple was supposed to be stacked with untold riches,” said Sorrowshade, looking around. “That troll lied to us. Typical.”

  “Now that’s just prejudiced, Sorrowshade,” said Vela. “Besides, we don’t do this for treasure. I mean, we did stop an undead warlock from summoning an ancient demon to destroy the world.”

  “Yeah? And what’s so great about the world?” said Sorrowshade.

  “Treasureless dungeons are very frustrating to me!” said Thromdurr. “They intensify the . . . empty feeling I get when a quest is done. Does anyone else have this feeling?”

  The other adventurers shook their heads.

  “Well, I for one hope we are ambushed by murderous bandits again on the way back to town,” said Thromdurr, “to enliven my spirits!”

  “Then let us return to Pighaven,” said Vela. She started to turn.

  “Hang on just a minute, folks,” said Devis. “What have we here?”

  The thief had been quietly chipping away at the wall behind the altar with his dagger. Long ago, plaster had been cunningly spread over the mortar to conceal a seam. What he had uncovered was a distinctly door-shaped outline.

  “It is a secret door!” said Thromdurr. “How can you not see it, tiny friend?”

  “My question was rhetorical,” said Devis. The thief slipped his fingers into the crack and felt around for a moment. Then he smiled. There was a click and then a low rumble as the door slid aside. Beyond it lay a vault that somehow seemed far older than the rest of the temple. It was piled high with gold, silver, gemstones, and bejeweled weapons of impeccable craftsmanship. The adventurers’ eyes grew wide. Some of the heroes may have even started to salivate.

  “I want the battle axe!” said Thromdurr.

  “That ruby is mine!” said Devis.

  “Dibs on that shield!” said Vela.

  “I thought we didn’t do it for treasure,” said Sorrowshade. “And before you go putting your greasy mitts on any of that loot, we might want to figure out what that says first.”

  She pointed to series of jagged runes that were carved into the doorjamb.

  “Hmm. Looks like Old Dragonian,” said Vela. “Can anybody read it?”

  “I speak Orc,” said Thromdurr.

  “I’ve got Elvish and Shadownese,” said Sorrowshade.

  “It’s probably not important,” said Devis. “Anyway, I think we’re going to need some hirelings to clear this place out. That gilded throne has got to be worth a fortune. Luckily I know a guy who flips thrones.”

  “Devis, those runes almost certainly describe a terrible curse of some sort,” said Vela.

  “You don’t know that!” said Devis. “It could say ‘Great job!’ or ‘Enjoy the free treasure!’”

  “Nobody touch anything inside the vault,” said Vela.

  Thromdurr shook his head. “The empty feeling grows.”

  “This dungeon is the worst,” said Sorrowshade, pulling up her cowl.

  “Can we vote?” said Devis. “How about we vote? I vote in favor of us being rich. And anyway, what’s so bad about being cursed? We’ve all been cursed before. Sorrowshade, remember when that evil shaman turned you into a porcupine? We laugh about that now!”

  “I don’t laugh about that,” said Sorrowshade. “Or anything.”

  “I tell you what, Devis, I think Albiorix can read Old Dragonian,” said Vela. “Perhaps he can translate the runes. If, by some small chance, it turns out not to be a curse, we can return to claim the treasure.”

  She unfurled a blank scroll and made a quick rubbing of the inscription with charcoal.

  “By then this whole place will be cleared out by goblins,” said Devis. “Can I at least take the ruby? Then it’s just me getting cursed. I don’t mind.”

  “No,” said Vela.

  “There are always more dungeons, tiny friend,” said Thromdurr. “Come. Let us away.”

  And so the four brave adventurers left the lost Temple of Azathor and began their journey home, though Devis the thief did lag behind the others.

  Albiorix arrived at the Wyvern’s Wrist tavern—the only inn in the tiny hamlet of Pighaven. He was tired and sweaty from carrying a heavy satchel of books for several miles. If Albiorix had been a more powerful wizard, he could have cast a levitation spell on his bag to ease his burden, or perhaps even teleported himself right to the doorstep of the inn, appearing in a puff of impressively colored magical smoke. But the mystical arts take decades to master, and at age thirteen, Albiorix was still a mere apprentice to the Archmage Velaxis. While his friends had gone off to explore the lost Temple of Azathor, Velaxis had made him practice the ward of protection spell over and over again on a sack of grain, until his magicking hand hurt.

  As Albiorix stepped inside, he saw the owner of the Wyvern’s Wrist standing behind the bar, polishing flagons.

  “Well met
. . . er, I mean, hi,” said Albiorix with an awkward bow.

  She gave him a tight nod. “I cleared out the back room for ye, lad. As always, yer wee friends can stay as long as you’re payin’ for snacks.”

  “Excellent!” said Albiorix, perusing the menu. “They should be here any minute, so how about a large bowl of honey-roasted mallorn nuts, two orders of sour cream and onion lembas, and a trencher of cheese dip?”

  Albiorix plunked down a few silver pieces, and the innkeeper pocketed the coins. As he crossed the inn’s common room, a mysterious stranger with an eye patch beckoned him over. “Lo there. You have a brave and hardy look about you, lad. Be you an adventurer?”

  “Well, that’s very flattering about my look,” said Albiorix, trying to politely head him off. “Indeed I am an adventurer, but right now I’m actually—”

  “Recently I have come into possession of an ancient map,” said the one-eyed man, glancing around the tavern for spies. “A map that shows the precise location of the Caves of Thunderbeard. For a cut of the coin I could show you the way. . . .”

  “Caves of Thunderbeard. Wow. That sounds very, very exciting,” said Albiorix. “But I really can’t take on any quests at the moment. You see, it’s Homerooms & Hall Passes night!”

  “Hmm,” said the one-eyed man with a scowl. “Can I play?”

  “Ooh. The group is actually all full at the moment,” said Albiorix. “But I can let you know if we ever have an opening.”

  The one-eyed man spat on the floor.

  “Sorry,” said Albiorix as he ducked past a dwarven princess hoping to hire a party to restore her to her rightful throne.

  “Er, maybe the town guard can help?” he said to a simple farmer who needed help investigating the peculiar exsanguination of several of his pigs.

  Just as Albiorix entered the private back room, a travel-worn merchant burst into the tavern.

  “My caravan was attacked by ogres!” cried the merchant. “I’d offer a pretty reward to any brave souls who could recover my shipment of rare salves and ointments from the East!”

  “Not today,” said Albiorix under his breath as he quietly closed the door behind him. He stood in a small room with four chairs and a table. The group had a standing reservation at the Wyvern’s Wrist—every Thursday from seven to ten. Albiorix plopped his satchel on a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Homerooms & Hall Passes night was his favorite night of the week.