The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “My father has talked about that,” she said. “Please, you must get this Wormling to save my family.”

  “That is not my role here. The Wormling gave me a specific charge to locate the eggs of the Dragon and then wait for him.”

  Talea cocked her head. “How could the Wormling know the Dragon had a mate and eggs? That seems impossible.”

  “He told me he found clues in the book. Words he did not understand—could not understand until now.”

  “And where is he?”

  Rogers looked away. “He wouldn’t say, but he was quite solemn when he left.”

  Talea grabbed Rogers’s sleeve. “I cannot wait for him. You must help me. You must rescue us. Surely this Wormling is kindhearted and would want you to.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Rogers said. “But if I act too soon, I could frustrate his plans. I must wait for him.”

  Talea’s mind raced. “Then do this. Go to the dungeon and locate my family. Get word to them that help is on the way.”

  Rogers stared into her eyes. “That I can do, princess.”

  If you have ever climbed a mountain without a rope to make sure you do not splatter if you fall, you will understand how Owen felt descending a treacherous crevasse. With each step and slippery handhold, he moved closer to a fog-shrouded area he could not see through.

  Owen’s foot slipped, sending rocks cascading down the side. He hung there, listening for the strike of the rocks against the floor of the canyon, but it was either a bottomless pit or so deep he couldn’t hear the impact. He pulled himself up to a ledge, catching his breath, stilling his heart, choking back the panic.

  What would happen to the Lowlands if I never came out of this abyss? Is there some backup plan by the King? Am I still protected by some other being—a stand-in for Nicodemus—or am I totally on my own?

  To keep fear at bay, Owen immediately brought to mind several passages from The Book of the King. Strength is chosen caused his heart to soar. To act in fear is to admit you do not know the truth, another passage said. A true follower of the King will respect him and fear no other.

  As a trickle leads to a creek, a creek to a stream, a stream to a river, and a river to the sea, Owen’s thoughts turned from fear to his father.

  Another memorized passage reminded him of the Queen, his mother—her goodness, her wisdom, and her care. The love and compassion of the Son’s mother reach to the ends of the Lowlands and restores the broken and beaten and bruised. The outcast will receive the comfort of her presence.

  This was why Owen was descending this precipice even now, carefully measuring each step. The book foretold not only good and pleasant and hope-filled things but also those that caused tears and questions and the stomach to clench. Everything in Owen told him his mother had been sentenced to this place of the downtrodden and forgotten. His heart had been set on this rescue ever since his trip from the Highlands. But a passage kept coming back to him, one he had not memorized, so before he reached the fog below, he sat on a shelf and pulled the book from his pack.

  Do you seek someone wise—an intelligent, learned person? The King has taken the understanding of the most respected and has shown it to be silly. Even the silliness of the King is wiser than anyone who thinks himself smart. The King’s weakness will overcome the enemy’s strength, for he chooses to use the weak, the weary, the lowly, and the despised so no one may be prideful. Indeed, the enemy will fall by the hand of the King, who works through those with no voice, those with no standing, and those in exile.

  Owen closed the book and continued, entering the white mists as he mulled over the passage. Soon his footsteps echoed, so he called out and his voice returned too. He stopped, thinking he might be next to a parallel canyon wall. He squinted but could make out nothing through the thick, white soup.

  Owen’s first impulse was to continue, however (and this has been such an important word throughout the short life of the Wormling), for some reason unknown to him, he hung there and waited. When the fog showed no signs of dissipating, he shouted to Grandpa, pleading with him to enter the chasm.

  His voice echoed so loudly that Owen wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, but that is unwise when clinging to the side of a mountain. He yelled again, this time commanding the flyer to descend, but again there was no response.

  Finally, holding on with both hands, he used his right foot to test the next level and found there was none. Suddenly, his left foot slipped and he dangled perilously.

  “Grandpa!” Owen shouted. “I need you now!”

  His arm strength ebbing and unable to find purchase with either foot, Owen was quickly running out of options. He could let go and hope the drop was short. Or he could swing himself to the other side and try to grab the wall that must be there. Something, after all, was making his voice echo. Either option required a great leap of faith, but the latter seemed better than dropping until plopping.

  He was about to leap to the other side when he heard a whoosh and then a kerflaaaap and then another whoosh. Grandpa’s spindly legs appeared overhead, and his outstretched wings sent the fog billowing just enough to reveal that the wall that would have been Owen’s destination was but a thin veneer of rock that surely would have broken off with his weight. And below? A cavern so deep that Owen’s mouth dropped at the sight of it.

  However (again this great word), directly below him lay about two feet of open space before a short ledge that led to a pathway. All Owen had to do was drop onto this ledge without falling over the side.

  Do not doubt in the dark what you know is true in the light sprang to Owen’s mind from the book. The light was soon gone, because as quickly as he had arrived, Grandpa screeched and lifted away, leaving the fog to settle around Owen again. He let go, reached the sand on the pathway, and landed on his seat, thankful he hadn’t swung out into the abyss.

  “Who goes there?” a gruff voice said. “Answer or you’re dead.”

  Rogers had assumed that some weird being would be watching the Dragon’s eggs, if not the Dragoness herself, certainly not some pretty, doe-eyed girl he would feel sorry for the moment he saw her.

  “Locate the eggs or hatchlings,” the Wormling had said. “Find out who is watching them and wait for my return.”

  Rogers suspected the girl was a decoy—that she might have even been a Changeling there to attack anyone attempting to harm the eggs. It didn’t appear so, but how could he know?

  Rogers had accomplished quite a feat just getting to the secret chamber where the eggs were kept. Now he crept onto the balcony of the palace, right outside the window, and worked his way down by stepping in the cracks of the stones. The cracks had grown fewer and farther between, and he felt vulnerable on the wall with invisibles and scythe flyers darting about.

  Finally he found a channel into the balcony below, then slipped inside and down the stairs where there were fewer guards. You may wonder how Rogers could do such a thing, but, as we have said, everyone has a gift and Rogers’s was stealth. He was surreptitious and able to elude detection. Plus, none of the guards stationed here by the Dragon believed anyone would find the place or risk entering such a well-kept fortress if they did.

  Rogers sneaked past sleeping guards and those more interested in their food until he came to a thick, locked door. A rank odor, pungent with mildew and something rotten, made him wonder if the cooks had left their potatoes inside this room too long.

  Rogers peeked through the keyhole, but the other side was dark. He put his mouth over the opening and whispered, “Anyone in there? Can anyone hear me?”

  He heard only the distant roar of water hitting the shore outside and the drip, drip, drip of the damp halls.

  “Hello?” he called a little louder, his voice echoing. He held his breath, expecting suspicious footsteps, but none came.

  Then through the murky darkness came a grunt and a stirring of water.

  Rogers strained to see through the keyhole. “Can you hear me?” he tried a little louder.


  Rogers ripped a piece of cloth from his shirt and held it to a torch on the wall. The cloth lit, and he dangled it in front of the keyhole. All that served, of course, was to illumine his face for whoever was on the other side. He jumped high enough to toss the burning cloth through the opening above the door, then peered through the keyhole again.

  Through the faint flickering, Rogers saw long, gray hair and an eyeball. “Get us out of here,” a man said in a raspy voice.

  “Are you Talea’s father?” Rogers said.

  “Talea?” the man said. “I don’t know any Talea.” A pause. “Oh, Talea. Yes, she’s my daughter.”

  Rogers frowned. “Don’t lie to me. I will help you, but I must find Talea’s family.”

  Another voice, feminine and older, said, “I know her family. Their cell is below us, through the passage.”

  “Then there is hope,” Rogers whispered.

  Something moved behind him. A guard sent his hot, smelly breath onto the back of Rogers’s neck. “So, you got out of there, did you?” the beast growled. “Well, back in with you.”

  I come in peace,” Owen said quickly. “I’ve come to help.”

  “We have everything we need.”

  “Except your freedom,” Owen said. “Let me talk to your leader. Your council or magistrate. Whoever is in charge. Perhaps your queen.”

  Owen heard a wheeze, then a long pause. Through the fog, a withered, skeletal hand pocked with white and dark splotches reached for him.

  Owen stepped back to the edge of the precipice. The hand retreated into the fog.

  “I’ll come with you,” Owen said.

  “What weapon do you have?” the being said.

  “A sword. But it is sheathed. I mean you no harm.”

  “If you mean us no harm, give it to me.”

  Owen had sworn he would never give up his sword again, but he wanted to show these people he was a friend.

  Suddenly a man’s face shot out, inches from Owen’s, with long, stringy, dirt-filled hair that hung past his chin. The whites of his eyes were so large and the pupils so small that they looked like black olives in the middle of gigantic snowballs. The skin was sallow and stretched to the breaking point, and the lips had pulled back to reveal teeth like icicles with large gaps. The chin jutted out like a pier on the ocean. The man’s nose had worn away, leaving just stubbles of cartilage. A black hat lay low on his forehead, and his shirt and pants bore massive holes. Owen glanced at the man’s bare feet, little more than flesh drawn tight over bones.

  Owen unsheathed his sword with a zing, and the man’s mouth dropped open, exposing a shriveled tongue.

  “Is it magic?” the man said.

  “Take it,” Owen said.

  Skeleton Man held Owen’s sword as high as he could with his skinny arms, sending the fog away to reveal a world of caverns cut into rock walls. It reminded Owen of Erol’s home, but this was much more barren, and instead of the caves forming above, they descended into a rock-strewn walkway.

  “Why have you come here?” the man said, nudging Owen into the compound.

  “To help,” Owen said. “And to ask for help.”

  The man laughed as if he had gargled razor blades. “Our help? We have nothing but disease to offer, and neither will you if you are exposed to us too long.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  As they moved along, people emerged and lined the pathway. They wore large hats or hoods and scarves around their faces. Any patches of exposed skin were either totally white or as dark as tar. The people waved crooked sticks as Owen passed, shouting from spent lungs.

  “A pure one is here!”

  “He won’t be pure for long!”

  “Rather cute! Come here, prince!”

  Owen kept a careful eye on Skeleton Man, who could not hold the Sword of the Wormling aloft for more than seconds at a time. Finally he just let it drag.

  “How did you get here, pure one?” he said. “Sentenced by the Dragon?”

  “I came of my own free will,” Owen said.

  “Don’t lie to me!” the man shouted.

  Owen heard a zing and ducked just in time to avoid his own sword. It clanged on a large rock and landed in a thicket of gnarly twigs.

  “How dare you mock us like that?”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Owen said, retrieving the sword. He scratched himself on a thorn, and blood pooled on his skin. He handed the weapon back to the man, smiling. “Now be careful with that.”

  Skeleton Man just stared at Owen’s scratch. “We no longer bleed. We no longer have feeling at all.”

  “And this happened after you came here?” Owen said.

  He shook his head. “Long ago the Dragon gave us this curse when we lived in the Amoyn Valley and the Valley of Shoam and a hundred other hamlets. Anyone with the disease was forced to flee here or the rest of the people would catch it as well. The Dragon sent a special battalion of flyers to carry us. Then he destroyed those flyers so we had no hope of escape.”

  No wonder Grandpa wouldn’t come. He must have known.

  “As for food, what little we get is dropped from the sky—meat unfit for vultures. Only the insane would come here of their own free will. Or someone ignorant.”

  “Well, I assure you I am neither insane nor ignorant. What is your name, friend?”

  “Thaddeus, and I’m not your fr—”

  “Take me to the Queen.”

  “How do you know the Queen is here?” Thaddeus said, slowly raising the sword again, arms quivering. “You must be an agent of the Dragon. He is the one who sent her to us.”

  “I’m the enemy of the Dragon, and I’ve met the Queen before. Trust me. She’ll want to see me.”

  Thaddeus limped along, dragging the sword until Owen offered to carry it. So winded that he was gasping, he easily gave it over. “She is the first among us without the disease, so we lodge her as far from us as possible. We have this wild notion, you see, that there might be hope for her rescue one day.”

  Owen stopped. “That’s why I am here but not just for her. You will provide aid, and the King will give you strength to accomplish great things.”

  “Like standing for more than a few minutes? being able to lift a stone?”

  “Don’t mock the King’s power, Thaddeus. The Book of the King says, ‘You have not seen nor heard, nor has an inkling of what is to come entered your heart. But the King is preparing something marvelous for you.’”

  “The Book of the King? What has that to do with us outcasts?”

  “It applies to everyone who embraces it,” Owen said. “You do not have to live like this or stay here. The King loves outcasts. He will lift you from this place.”

  “You speak fairy tales.”

  “He sent the Queen to you, didn’t he?”

  “She did not come of her own accord. She was sentenced here.”

  Owen faced Thaddeus, eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t even believe if the Son of the King himself were to visit you.”

  “Not true!” Thaddeus yelled. “That would be different. But the Dragon would never let him live.”

  Owen stared at Thaddeus until the man looked away.

  Rogers fell into a smelly pit of water up to his neck, finding himself in a hallway leading to the now submerged cells. He coughed and sputtered and shook himself as he trudged up a ledge.

  Hearing whispers in the darkness, he said, “I’m looking for Talea’s family. I need information. Who knows them?”

  More whispers.

  “. . . from the Dragon . . .”

  “. . . don’t think we can trust him . . .”

  “. . . kill him . . .”

  “Think again,” Rogers said. “The Wormling sent me.”

  “Wormling?”

  “He’s come?”

  Rogers didn’t want to say that the Wormling had come, been presumed dead, and returned again. That he had come once was hard enough to believe. “The Wormling told me himself that the Son is coming. And when
the Son returns, his light will spread throughout the land. No place will be left untouched.”

  “The Dragon has touched every part of the land,” a man said, his voice raspy. “How will the Son defeat him?”

  “With the words of the King. Not one prophecy will be left unfulfilled. Everything in The Book of the King will come true.”

  “We can’t even read!” a woman said.

  “The Wormling has never done a thing for us.”

  “Why would the Wormling allow you to get locked up here if he’s so powerful?”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Rogers said. “I was trying to help a friend find her family and was spotted.”

  “None of them are alive,” a woman said. “Your friend’s family did not make it out of the flood. We were the only ones let out of our cells when the water came.”

  Rogers’s heart fell. Talea served the Dragoness for the distinct purpose of saving her family. How would he tell her they were gone? How could he persuade her to continue her work until the Wormling returned?

  If the water rose again, Rogers would surely die too. And even if it didn’t, how could he wait for the Wormling as he had been instructed? He couldn’t even get back to Talea with the awful news.

  Owen followed Thaddeus through the ghastly cave village, and more people came out and pushed close to him.

  Thaddeus motioned them back. “He is a pure one,” he kept saying. “Don’t touch him.”

  The people stared at Owen as if he were an alien. Older ones, barely able to walk, squinted from their resting places. Others gazed passively while munching miserably on what looked like bark.

  In the midst of a group of people wrapped in shawls and ragged blankets was a girl not more than ten years old, her head shaved.

  Owen fixed his eyes on her and stopped. When he knelt and smiled at her, many fell back. He spoke softly. “Why are you here?”

  Her eyes sparkled, but she turned and called for her mother.