The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Another gasp from the council.

  “But, sire—,” RHM said.

  This time a snarl silenced him.

  “What do you require?” the Queen said.

  The Dragon stepped from his throne and settled on his belly on the floor, arms crossed under his chin, his face inches from the Queen’s. His breath, a putrid mixture of charcoal and bad cheese, turned her empty stomach.

  “Once the repairs have been made, I want you to accompany me to the coliseum and declare your allegiance, recognize your sovereign, bow your knee to me, and be allowed to live.” The Dragon batted his eyelashes at the Queen in anticipation of her response.

  With a fierceness that caused even those at the table to recoil, she spat, “My husband is the true King, and I shall never betray him, even at the cost of my life. He is the one with true greatness and glory and dignity and grandeur. You will never compare to him, and I could never bow my knee to you anywhere.”

  Except for a rattle deep in the Dragon’s throat, there was no sound.

  The Queen locked eyes with him. “And I still believe that the King’s words will come true. The four portals shall be breached. The Son will return, and you will be defeated. And he will marry his bride.”

  “I could dispatch you with flames this very instant, woman,” the Dragon said with an awful laugh. “Your Son is either already dead or so aged he wouldn’t even be able to stand and say his vows. And your husband was dispatched long ago.”

  The Queen noticed RHM flinch and assumed he desired to correct his master. “Nothing you can say or do will make me worship you,” she said. “Do with me as you wish, but do not waste your time or mine by threatening me.”

  The Dragon looked mad enough to incinerate the entire castle, but instead he moved past the Queen to a painting on the wall that depicted the whole of the Lowlands. “This was one of your husband’s favorites while he lived here. Notice particularly this part near the forbidden forests. Do you know what is there?”

  The Queen peered at the painting, then looked away as council members chuckled and whispered.

  “Yes,” the Dragon purred. “A fate worse than death. Either you bow before me or I will send you to a place from which you will never return. Every day of your miserable life will be spent in agony at refusing my offer.”

  Sweat beaded on the Queen’s brow, but with her hands tied she could not wipe it away. With quavering voice, she said, “I will never worship you.”

  The Dragon drew to within inches of her face again, and it seemed the very walls could crumble from the force of his voice. “I swear to make you regret those words! In front of these witnesses, you have committed high treason against your sovereign. You shall be banished from our midst and sentenced to live the remainder of your pathetic life among the outcasts of Perolys Gulch!”

  The Queen lowered her head and shuddered. He was right. A fate worse than death.

  Of all the choices Owen had made since learning he was the Son, the most difficult was whether to slip out the basement window and escape this spooky place or stand and fight the beasts above. He had read time and again in The Book of the King that fear would render him small.

  Instead of running or brandishing his weapon against three beings who could slice and dice and make french fries of him, Owen unsheathed his sword and held it in front of his mouth. “Zzzzzz,” he said, tongue close to the blade. The sound split, making a metallic buzz much like that of the minions of time.

  Whiner said, “The minions are back. Let’s get out of here before we get bitten ourselves.”

  Wings flapped and a gust of wind spurted through the keyhole.

  Owen held his breath and waited, then buzzed louder, waving the sword. Water dripped through the charred building, and the floorboards creaked above. He leaned down to the keyhole and saw the hulking form of a huge revellor peering back at him. Owen jumped back, his heart beating wildly.

  The doorknob turned and caught. The revellor spurted liquid through the keyhole, and as it hit the floor, it sizzled and bubbled and smoked like grease in a skillet. The metal doorknob was melting before his eyes.

  Owen sheathed his sword and secured his pack, then wedged a rickety chair against the door. He rushed to the window, boards groaning under his feet, and crawled outside through the sharp glass. One of the shards cut him, but he kept going.

  Once he had crawled out, he felt a lot better than being in the room with the creature, now banging and pushing on the door. Owen made it to the street, and rain soaked his hair and clothes. A flash of lightning illuminated the remnants of the building and a figure in the empty doorway. The being howled an unearthly cry that cut through Owen like a knife.

  Owen raced into an alley much like the one he had run through before he had discovered The Book of the King. “Nicodemus,” he said, gasping, “if you’re near, I need your help!”

  Downspouts poured from surrounding roofs.

  Should he have stayed to fight? Would the revellors fly back to the Dragon and hasten the destruction of the Highlanders?

  Owen shook the water from his hair like a dog and tried to think. The Book of the King instructed him to be courageous, to fight his battles one by one, and to not despair, no matter what the outcome. The footsteps of the righteous are ordered by the King. Though you may slip and fall, he will help you get back on your feet.

  A wing flapped overhead, and a pang of fear shot through Owen. He ducked into a stairwell and shivered, backing up as far as he could into a brick wall, where he was sheltered from the rain. He was trying to gather his wits when he felt a presence and heard a familiar voice.

  “They will sense I am here,” Nicodemus whispered, “and they will know you are here as well.”

  “I need to find a place to hide and collect myself,” Owen said.

  Though Owen could not see him, he imagined Nicodemus’s face, scrunched in thought, working out the problem.

  “A woman you know lives nearby,” Nicodemus said. “She was your teacher—the one who was sent away.” He gave Owen the address and directions. “Now I must go.”

  “Wait,” Owen said. “Did I do the right thing? Should I have stayed to fight the beasts?”

  Owen felt a hand on his shoulder. “Your heart is good, young prince. There will come a time to fight, but for now it is best to elude the enemy. Now go with haste. The darkness may provide you with covering.”

  Owen stood at the end of a darkened hallway, his sword behind him, water dripping from his clothes and hair. The narrow hall left little room for him to hide, but he had found apartment 4D after jimmying the front door. It was still dark outside, which was eerie because the sunlight should have begun to invade.

  He listened to a radio through the thin walls of 4C as well as the sounds of rattling pots and pans. His stomach clenched when he smelled bacon sizzling and imagined a skillet full of eggs, toast popping up, pancakes and syrup. . . .

  Owen heard a news report about local authorities being baffled over reported attacks by bees “that people are saying don’t look much like bees. The attacks began two days ago, and residents are warned to keep windows and doors shut and taped. Some believe this is simply a bad locust invasion, but many injured in the attacks are in serious condition at local hospitals.”

  Owen tapped lightly on 4D. A dull light shone under the door, but he saw no movement.

  When he tapped again, the radio went silent and a door opened behind him. A chain tightened and an old, gray-headed woman peeked out of 4C and said, “What are you doing here? I’ll call the police if you don’t get out.”

  That was the last thing Owen needed. “I’m one of Mrs. Rothem’s students,” he said quickly. “Does she still live here?”

  “Students don’t come around here,” the woman said. “How’d you get in? And how did you escape all those flying things?”

  Owen kicked 4D with his heel.

  “I’m calling the police,” the woman said.

  Just then, the door behind Owen o
pened and a shocked Mrs. Rothem stood there, her face contorted. “Owen? What are you doing here?”

  “You know him?” the woman across the hall said.

  “He’s one of my best students. Come in. Come in.”

  It was a small apartment, with just a couch in the living room surrounded by makeshift bookshelves of milk cartons, wood, and cinder blocks. The kitchen table was small and had only two chairs. A single door led to a bedroom, where a nightstand was filled with books.

  Owen moved to the window. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rothem, but I needed a place to hide for a moment. Do you mind if I close these blinds?”

  “Go ahead. What’s wrong?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of the creatures out there.”

  “Of course, but you’ve been gone so long. Where have you been?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” he said, taking off his backpack.

  “I read Clara’s story in the school newspaper after I was transferred. We’ve all been quite concerned.”

  How much could Owen tell this woman?

  “Let me get you some breakfast,” she said. “Would you like that?”

  “Very much.”

  “And hang your jacket in the bathroom. You can dry your hair in there.”

  Owen carefully placed his sword and jacket on the bathroom floor so as not to frighten Mrs. Rothem.

  He returned to a cup of steaming tea, followed by a bowl of oatmeal, toast, and scrambled eggs. He ate hungrily as Mrs. Rothem sat sipping her own tea. She put a pot of water on the stove, saying she would make lunch for him as well.

  Mrs. Rothem crossed her arms. “You can trust me, you know.”

  Owen nodded and pulled The Book of the King out of his backpack. “A man gave me this. It changed my life.”

  She smiled as she took the book and ran her hands across the creases and rough spots. “Many lives have been changed through books.”

  “But it took me to a place that has no books,” Owen said. “The people there are wonderful, but they aren’t free. They are terrified of their enemy.”

  “And how did you get to this other world?” Mrs. Rothem said, leaning forward, eyes fixed on Owen.

  He told her of Watcher and Mordecai and Nicodemus and the Scribe. He explained that the man who had given him the book was his real father, the flying minions who had come to the Highlands were from the Dragon, and his future and the future of the two worlds were intertwined.

  Mrs. Rothem listened intently and gently leafed through the book, asking about his trip and what Owen had learned. He told her tame stories of the battles, but she didn’t seem squeamish.

  “Why do you suppose the Dragon lured you to the castle with this fake son?” she said.

  “He knew the real Son wasn’t there, but he wanted to trap me. Perhaps kill me. I’m the real Son.”

  “Does the Dragon know that?” Mrs. Rothem said. “Doesn’t he think the Wormling and the Son are two people, just as you did?”

  Owen paused. “He’s the one who kidnapped me and brought me to the Highlands. Surely he knows.”

  She shook her head. “This may be why he sent these stinging animals—what did you call them?”

  “Minions of time.”

  “If what you say is correct,” Mrs. Rothem said, “Mr. Reeder may have covered for you. He may have told these beings that you slipped away and went into hiding—or that you were searching for the Wormling.”

  “It seems a stretch—”

  “But it fits,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  Owen let the news sink in. If the Dragon still believed, as Owen had, that the Wormling and the Son were two people, he would have a better chance at defeating the old beast.

  She looked deep in thought. “I spoke with the principal after I was transferred. She said your father—Mr. Reeder—was quite agitated about your being gone. But she did not doubt that he loved you.”

  He saw a twinkle in Mrs. Rothem’s eyes, and she reminded him of the Queen back in the Lowlands.

  She placed a wrinkled hand over his. “I always knew there was something special about you, Owen. I could see it in your eyes. I sensed it with every paper you wrote. To know you are royalty is a surprise, but I cannot think of a more deserving person—”

  Suddenly shattering glass blew into the room as a hideous flying beast crashed to the floor.

  Evil eyes seemed to study the two at the table, wings twitching, tentacles dripping a green liquid that burned a hole in the floor.

  A deep voice, the one Owen had heard earlier talking to the other two revellors, broke the silence. “So, your secret is no longer a secret,” the being growled. “And the Dragon’s questions will be answered when I bring your body to him. I’ll receive a double reward. Don’t you think?” The beast struggled to its feet but could barely stand without hitting its head on the ceiling.

  Unless Owen could get back to the bathroom, he was unarmed, except for the book. He took it from Mrs. Rothem. “Stay still,” he said, stepping between her and the beast. “Hear the words of the King!”

  “I will listen to nothing from a defeated foe,” the being said, shooting a stream at Owen’s head.

  Owen used the book to deflect the stream toward the kitchen, where it melted a hole in the window. The book was undisturbed. “‘Though the forces of evil conspire against me, the sovereign plan of the King will—’”

  “Do you think your empty words will defeat me?” the beast said, lips twitching and eyes red. “His Majesty, the Dragon, says this to your lifeless King.” The monster rushed Owen and sent a blast of acidy poison from his mouth that reminded Owen of the demon vipers he had faced in the Lowlands. From its two biggest tentacles came two smaller blasts.

  “Get down!” Owen yelled at Mrs. Rothem. He blocked the biggest stream but had to hurtle across the room to send the liquid behind him, creating a circle on the wall that sizzled and smoked, then crumbled in upon itself, revealing the bathroom.

  The revellor pounced, but just as its razor-sharp jaws were upon Owen, he shoved The Book of the King inside its mouth and pushed with all his might, eluding the tentacles but barely budging the beast. With its wings spread behind it, the revellor caught itself in midair and dived at Owen, who sprang back into the hole in the wall. As plaster exploded around him, Owen rolled through pipes and over tile, plopping into the bathtub just as another stream of green goo struck the tub, ran to the bottom, and created a huge hole in the floor.

  “What in the world . . . ?” a man said from his bathroom below.

  “Sorry,” Owen said. “Won’t be much longer.”

  “Yes, not much longer,” the revellor screeched, lunging at Owen.

  As his enemy went airborne, Owen called for his sword and fell through the opening in the floor, landing beside the man, who stood there with a razor poised before his lathered face. Owen darted to the bathroom door and into the kitchen as something skittered and fell behind him.

  A woman in curlers sat at the table, mouth full of pancakes, eyes wide as Owen barreled through with his sword. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I need to use your front door.”

  A horrible thump came from the bathroom. The man shouted, and then the woman screamed.

  “Over here, Your Sliminess,” Owen called. He closed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time. He had made it to only the sixth step when the apartment door splintered and the revellor flew into the hall, scanning with giant insectlike eyes.

  Owen held up the sword to block the next volley of liquid. The weapon glowed and created a protective shield around him, though it did not protect the nearby walls and doors.

  The revellor blocked Owen’s run for the next floor, so Owen changed direction. When someone opened an apartment door to see what was happening, the enemy was distracted and Owen headed back upstairs.

  “Stay inside!” Owen hollered, fending off another spray.

  When he reached Mrs. Rothem’s floor again, he turned and met his enemy, using his sword t
o splatter the liquid back on the beast.

  However, instead of weakening the monster, the stuff seemed to give it strength. “Now you will feel the wrath of the true king!”

  Owen ran to the next flight of stairs, blocking more liquid and wondering whether the monster would ever run out.

  Owen reached the top landing but found the door to the roof locked. The revellor hovered in the stairwell, and Owen could see down all five flights of stairs to the bottom.

  “Ready to die?” the beast said.

  “Actually, no,” Owen said. Recalling from The Book of the King, he said, “‘Your foot will not slip in your efforts for justice.’” He jumped onto the railing.

  As the revellor flew at him, Owen dodged to his right, lopping off a tentacle that spiraled to the landing. With a screech, the monster nearly caught Owen with a slicing blow, but Owen blocked it and chopped off another tentacle with a quick jab.

  Seething now and spitting blood, the revellor extended its wings to full width and swooped down on Owen.

  He ducked just in time, but the force of the wind from the wings pushed him over the edge and into thin air. With nothing to break his fall, no arm in the night to catch him, at the last second Owen stuck his sword into the wood below the railing. Hanging by one hand, he saw the revellor rise in the air behind him like an eerie bird of prey, a smile on its blood-spattered lips.

  Owen thought of his friends in the Lowlands. He thought of Clara and Mr. Page. What would they do when they discovered he had been killed by this fiend?

  “You look pretty beat up, you venom-spitting piece of trash,” Owen said. “Think you’ll have enough energy to fly me back to Cinder-breath?”

  “The Dragon will see these wounds as evidence of my devotion,” the revellor said, rearing back for its final salvo. “Now you will die!”

  Owen saw a figure on the landing just below move into the light. Mrs. Rothem held a huge, steaming pot with oven-mitted hands and, with a mighty heave, tossed boiling water onto the back of the flying beast.