The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

“Warn them,” the voice whispered. “Tell them to leave now.”

  It is difficult to tell where a person is going until you understand where that person has been.

  Owen had read that in The Book of the King, but it hadn’t dawned on him until now, looking at Connor’s gleaming sword (yes, it gleamed even though it was cloudy and rainy, a sure sign it was sharp and well cared for). Why had Connor moved so far from his family? Why hadn’t he attended his own father’s funeral?

  “You must be suffering over your father,” Owen said haltingly. “I am too. I don’t want to fight you. He was my friend—”

  “Whether you want to fight is not the question. The question is, will you fight when I raise my sword?”

  “I’m unarmed,” Owen said, holding out his hands.

  “My father said the coming Wormling would be a strong warrior,” Connor said, circling Owen. “All his life he clung to that hope. I hung on to that story until I grew old enough to realize it was a fable. And now you come, filling people’s minds with talk of a book and a prophecy.”

  “I didn’t ask to come here. I didn’t want to be a Wormling.”

  “So you’re on our side then and not on the side of the Dragon?”

  “The Dragon came after me in the other world—”

  “And you bowed to it and worshipped it, didn’t you?”

  “No! I would never bow to the Dragon. Only to the true King and his Son. That’s why I’ve come, to search out the Son so that—”

  “He can lead us in revolt against the Dragon and unify the two worlds—yes, I know. I heard it my whole life until I grew weary of all the talk. And then I decided to do something. We have an army.” Connor threw his head back. “We have begun our own rebellion against the Dragon.”

  Some in the crowd gasped and stepped back. Owen saw a few old men in tears. Mothers pulled children close and covered their heads with kisses.

  “If you are a true Wormling, if you are the one my father spoke of, you will have no problem joining us. Get your things. Take up your weapons and follow.”

  Owen stared at Connor’s fiery eyes. He took a breath, unable to shake the thought of all these people listening and watching. He thought about the speech he was supposed to give in class—how frightened he had been. Compared to this, the speech was child’s play, though the thought stirred something old in him.

  “You cannot fight this enemy with conventional weapons,” Owen said. “Even if you had all the swords and spears in the land and all the courage you could muster, this will require more.”

  “Why do you let this dog speak to you?” one of the hooded men spat. “If he won’t fight with us, he’s against us. Kill him.”

  “I’m not against you,” Owen said. “I’m for the King and his Son. The Dragon will be defeated but not this way. Not your way.” He looked toward the hill where they had buried Bardig. “Not at such a cost.”

  “Why can’t we fight?” Connor said. “What is your battle plan?”

  “The book,” Owen said. “It was given to me by Mr. Page, and I used it to follow Mucker to this world.”

  “He’s brought death to us,” a woman called.

  Others agreed.

  Connor waved his sword, as if slicing the Dragon in two. “Let him fight with his book then. I will use my sword, and we will see which of us has the better plan.”

  A man ran from Bardig’s house holding The Book of the King above his head. “I found it in his pack!”

  “Connor, don’t do this,” his mother begged.

  Connor’s eyes were locked on Owen’s. “Stay out of this, Mother. We will teach the Wormling a lesson he can’t read in any book.” He caught the book with one hand, then flipped it to Owen. “Fight!”

  Connor thrust his sword straight at Owen’s heart, but Owen thrust the book in front of him at the last second, absorbing the razor-sharp tip. It slid between his fingers and sank two inches, slicing through the animal-skin cover and all the way to the first few pages. Owen gasped, wondering if Mucker (who had returned to his normal size) might have been hurt. Connor yanked and yanked, with Owen holding fiercely, being pulled about the mud-splattered yard in an awkward dance. Connor finally worked the sword free, raising it over his head as Owen toppled in the mud.

  “Stop!” came a scream from above.

  Connor’s two hooded compatriots rushed to their leader’s side, brandishing their own swords.

  Watcher rushed down the mountain, the hair on her face pressed back as she ran, mouth agape, tongue lolling. Owen could not imagine a more beautiful sight—not that Watcher was beautiful, though to her kind she probably was, but the sight of a friend running toward him made his heart leap.

  “Run!” she yelled. “The lake is about to overflow!”

  Connor scowled. “Overflow?”

  “Watcher is in league with the Wormling,” someone said. “Don’t trust her.”

  “The lake has never overflowed!” someone else shouted.

  “She’s just trying to save her precious Wormling.”

  Watcher pulled to a stop, gasping, hooves caked with muck. “The trail around the lake—it’s usually hard. You can find rocks to skip. Now the trail is spongy and soft. It can’t hold much longer. We’re in danger—and the villages below. We must ring the warning bell.”

  Connor stepped up and held his sword to Watcher’s throat. “Swear on your life that this is true, halfling.”

  She glared, a fire as intense as Owen had ever seen, and pushed the sword away with a hoof. “I don’t have to swear to you or anyone. A wall of water, millions of buckets full, is ready to crash through here. If you won’t do anything about it, I will.”

  Several in the crowd ran for their homes as Watcher helped Owen up.

  He cradled the book. “Get the scroll. I’ll ring the bell.” High in a tree in the middle of the village, in a twist of gnarled branches, hung a bell that had once sat atop the school building in town. After Dreadwart had destroyed the building, the men of the village hauled the bell to the strongest tree in the square. “How many times should I ring it?”

  “As many as you can before the water comes,” Watcher said.

  Connor raised his sword to Owen. “Not so fast, Wormling. You might fool others here but not me. Now we fight.”

  Owen faced Connor, speaking quickly. “Your father cared for these people. Fight for them and their freedom. Protect them, and let me do what I must!”

  A hooded one blocked Owen’s way.

  Owen glanced at the tree and the bell swinging in the cold rain and wind.

  Watcher turned, ears trembling, face twisted. “Invisibles!”

  Far above the people and animals and rain-slicked countryside, through the thick clouds and into the next realm, lay the kingdom of the Dragon. Though he transcended the Highlands, the Lowlands, and the dominion invisible to human eyes, he spent much of his time watching and planning how to make people miserable.

  Looking out on his regiments of warriors, repulsive creatures with demonic eyes and faces, the Dragon called his aide, RHM or Reginald Handler Mephistopheles. This being, almost as revolting as the Dragon himself, was not only grotesque on the outside with scales, horns, and a stench that made Limburger cheese smell like perfume, but inside he was also equally hideous. Hideous squared. He cared for no being but himself and obeyed the Dragon only because the evil one was more powerful. Though the Dragon had no inkling, RHM had designs on the throne, just as the Dragon coveted the throne of the King.

  As for the Dragon, he was not content with subjugating his kingdom’s citizens. No, he longed to rule everyone in every sphere. So great was his concupiscence (a word you would not want to get at a spelling bee that means, among other things, an unusually strong desire) for power that he had lied, stolen, murdered, and even called his underlings bad names before scorching them with the fire that constantly gurgled in his throat. One burp and you were toast.

  When RHM arrived, crunching through the leftover bones of charred aides, the D
ragon spoke, his back to him. “After the death of Dreadwart, we agreed the best tactic for this Wormling was to allow him access to the Lowlands.”

  “Yes, sire. To lull him. Give him a sense of invincibility.”

  “It seems to me,” the Dragon rasped, “that the region deserves more punishment than Dreadwart inflicted. They must expect retaliation for the killing of one of my council. Which I anticipated.”

  “You knew he would die, sire?”

  “I was prepared for it, yes.”

  “What do you desire?”

  “Send a squadron of demon flyers to the area. Give the inhabitants no warning.”

  “Annihilation, sire? Incendiaries?”

  “No, no. Not fire. Purge the Valley of Shoam with water. Breach the lake wall. Those who survive will be left with nothing but the memory of what happens to those who cross the council.”

  RHM bowed and stepped backward, knowing full well that one order not fully followed would mean his bones taking their place on the Dragon’s floor.

  “And one more thing,” the Dragon said, a rattle in his chest. “Send a Stalker with the squadron to bring back news of this book the Wormling possesses.”

  “Would you have it stolen, sire?”

  “I would have it destroyed but not at the moment. If the Wormling loses the book in the flood, we have him right where we want him. If he keeps it, we’ll follow him on his search for the King’s Son. Until he discovers the truth.”

  Watcher disappeared into Bardig’s home, accompanied by the dead man’s wife.

  Owen rushed down the hill toward the Bell Tree, aware that Lowlanders were following but not looking back to prove it.

  Suddenly horrifying cries filled the skies, cries of war and attack. The air seemed filled with beings, clouds roiling in wind-driven mania.

  Owen had seen news footage of tornadoes, but he had never seen anything like this. Like low-flying missiles the invisible army swept through the valley, headed straight for the mountain.

  Owen tested the steps on the tree, placed the book on a low-hanging branch, then climbed to the top, grabbing the rope and swinging the bell as fast and as hard as he could. Below him the frightened villagers dashed for their homes, the worst places they could go. Others headed west, through the thick groves of pine to another ridge that overlooked the valley. That was where Owen would run when he had the chance.

  Connor stood below him now, brandishing his sword, yelling at him, but the bell drowned most of his words.

  Gong! Gong!

  “. . . avenge my father . . .”

  Gong! Gong!

  “. . . cut you down like . . .”

  Gong! Gong!

  “. . . so come down from . . .”

  Gong! Gong!

  The last gong was interrupted by a terrific explosion. People on the hill pointed at the lake, where a single half-moon hole had been left by the tail of a flying creature. Water gushed from it. Above them, hissing and screaming, came the chilling cry “For Dreadwart!”

  Then another half-moon opened in the crater and more water gushed. The wall of the lake had breached, and the villagers could only watch in horror. Seconds later, another salvo from the demon flyers hit the wall, this time farther down. Waterlogged sludge and mud and rocks and dirt spilled from the side of the mountain in slow motion, sending a deadly cascade toward the trees and houses and animals and people.

  Owen had been horrified of a school bully, the Slimesees, the Dragon, and more. But he had never seen anything as intent on destruction as this barreling wall of water.

  With a mighty roar, the water crashed through the trees, knocking them down like spilled toothpicks. The water gained momentum, throwing trees into boulders and moving them like toys.

  Connor suddenly fell silent, sheathing his sword, gathering his men, and running for the house on the hill. They were running toward the water! Owen yelled at them to run for the ridge, but they either wouldn’t listen or couldn’t hear.

  Watcher raced down the hill, the initiation scroll of parchment in her mouth. She made it to the tree just as the water reached the town.

  “The book!” Owen yelled, pointing to the lower branch. “Hand it to me!” He looked up as the water slammed into Bardig’s shack, turning it around until the walls collapsed and the cottage became part of the rushing stream.

  Watcher kicked the book to Owen as another tree slammed into the Bell Tree with a terrible shudder. Watcher fell into the water. Owen reached desperately for her, but it was no use. His friend paddled as best she could, then slipped under the muddy torrent.

  Screams. Terrible screams from above as people on the ridge overlooking the valley called out to friends and family. A woman holding a baby floated by as if on an amusement park ride. A scrumhouse with all four walls intact passed Owen. The water rose so high he could have reached out and touched the building. It soon slammed into a rock and disintegrated.

  Though he could not swim, Owen had survived the attack of the Slimesees before arriving in the Lowlands. Now he could think of nothing but staying in the tree and avoiding the gushing rapids, the book in his hands. Surely the lake would drain soon and the deep water would recede. But it appeared as if a giant had come through with a rake and simply wiped the hillside clean of trees and rock. Tons of debris cascaded in the bubbling brown swirl.

  Foot by foot the water rose, and the Bell Tree branches swayed, the trunk shuddering and jerking with each unseen underwater bomb—a tree, a boulder, a house.

  Owen slipped but regained his grasp, barely holding on to the book. He closed his eyes and begged for help. He remembered the voice that had saved him from the bully’s attack and had spoken about courage. Owen had named him the arm in the night.

  No help came.

  The tree bent under the weight of the rushing water, snapped somewhere below him, and with a sickening creak, turned like Bardig’s house. It crashed into the murky water with Owen clinging for his life.

  Agood emissary does the bidding of his Sovereign without hesitation—not out of fear but out of duty and honor. But standing on the ridge overlooking the violent water, this strange being, unseen to those around him, wondered at the orders tucked tightly in his belt. He had read them countless times in all manner of settings—in the other world outside Tattered Treasures bookstore and at the school, above Mountain Lake as the rains first came, even behind a draped section of the dungeon where he had spoken with the King.

  Until the book was lost—until it fell into the hands of the enemy of all souls (which was the plan of the Sovereign)—this being could not intervene in the affairs of the Wormling or any whose fate now hung in the balance. Oh, be assured, he wanted to, but his orders did not permit this.

  And he could not, under any circumstance, explain or expound upon why he was shadowing Owen (at some distance, as Watcher was now close to the Wormling). He could only protect the Wormling and the book until the time was right.

  In fact, it could be argued that the being had already overstepped his bounds in the school hallway when he assisted Owen in pummeling a group of testosterone-laden teenage boys. But the case could also be made that Owen’s life had been in danger, so intervention was imperative. Plus, that very conflict had set Owen on a path that led to Mr. Page.

  As the branch of the Bell Tree Owen clung to dipped toward the water, this invisible being moved effortlessly toward him, hovering, watching, noting the shift and pitch. Watcher had finally resurfaced, coughing and sputtering despite the initiation scroll in her teeth. She had frantically latched onto a rock outcropping with her forelegs and was trying desperately to hang on. But the being’s charge was Owen, and if he had to he would follow the Wormling anywhere—even to the farthest reaches of the Dragon’s realm.

  The threat posed by Connor had almost gone unnoticed by the being, because he had been busy guiding Watcher to warn others of the impending flood. But when he saw the sword slice through the book, he nearly jumped to Owen’s rescue. Fortunately the danger
had been averted by the young man himself. Though Owen was yet to become even an apprentice, he was learning the ways of the heart.

  From overhead came the ghastly cries of the scythe flyers, their huge, moon-shaped tails cutting like sharpened pendulums. Of all the hideous creatures under the Dragon’s control, the guardian being hated this regiment most. The devastation they wrought was ruinous, obliterating every target their leader assigned: town, lake, or living creature. No one could prepare for an attack of such force and reckoning. They could only cower.

  Owen’s tree stuck on something and he smiled, breathing again. But just as quickly, the tree broke loose and was swept downstream toward the valley. People floating by grabbed for the branches, but most flew past, caught in the current.

  Owen gripped the book with all his strength. Shivering, his head dunking under as the tree rolled, he scrambled to keep the book above water. He rode around the curve of the mountain, dropping into another channel the water had cut into the ground. The guardian cringed when he saw houses strewn about the hillside, people clinging to trees, children stripped bare, shoes and clothes and kitchen utensils and farm equipment hanging eerily in treetops.

  Only a hundred yards ahead of Owen lay a precipitous waterfall. The being moved quickly and decisively.

  * * *

  Owen hung on for dear life as the tree flew along. The rushing water picked up momentum, and the waves cut a relentless path in the ground. Then, as if something in the water had stirred (a Slimesees or a whale catching the tree and moving it against the current), the tree shifted and rode toward the bank of a raging river.

  It caught on a mighty oak, and Owen nearly flew off. He clung desperately to his perch and saw Watcher—fur matted, ears wet—struggling against the tide, trying to survive. She swam with hooves outstretched, her head—and the scroll in her mouth—barely above water.

  “Watcher!” Owen yelled. “Grab my hand!”

  When Owen leaned toward her, she shook her head, as if to protect him. That made him only more determined to reach her, and he leaned farther, supporting himself with his other arm around the book and a sturdy limb. Owen realized he could not reach Watcher, so he wedged the book in the crook of a branch and, with one foot around the sturdy limb, leaned out with both hands.