The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Owen uncorked the bottle and poured a little oil into his palm, trying to hold his breath.

  “Are you sure we can’t dilute it with water?”

  “It doesn’t come with directions,” he said, slathering it onto his arms and behind his neck. He couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the stench. “Let me put some on you.”

  Watcher gave him a death stare. “I don’t think I could stand going all the way to the islands smelling like that.”

  “You’re going to smell me anyway. Or would you rather be devoured?”

  “I’d rather stay here and wait for you,” she said, coughing. “You must understand—my sense of smell is more acute than yours. This would go straight from my fur to my brain.”

  “Fine. If you don’t want to go, stay. I’ll find Mordecai myself.” He jammed the cork into the bottle.

  Watcher extended a foreleg. “Wait. I’d never forgive myself.”

  “You don’t have to come,” Owen spat.

  She trotted to the other side of the dune and brought back a dollop of clay from the hillside, shoving it into her nostrils. “There. I can breathe through my mouth.”

  She closed her eyes as Owen applied the oil to her. He just hoped the Kerrol had her same sense of smell.

  Owen could barely keep his breakfast down. “Better give me some of that clay.” It helped but not much. He had to smile at how they must look. A young boy and a furry Watcher, clay stuffed in their noses, boarding a wood skiff, smelling of jargid.

  The water was cold and clear, and Owen saw small fish dart away as he helped Watcher push. When they reached a row of waves, the surf crashed over the skiff and turned it around, nearly knocking Owen off his feet.

  After several tries, Owen finally climbed on and paddled hard as Watcher worked at keeping her balance. Then a wave knocked him from the skiff like a man waving a fly from a picnic basket.

  Watcher leaped in, holding Owen above the water until they could recover the craft.

  Climbing on again, Owen put his head down and rowed with everything in him as Watcher swam and pushed from behind. “Here it comes!” Owen yelled as another huge wave began to form.

  “Keep paddling!” Watcher shouted.

  The skiff rose and Owen felt 10 feet above the water. Finally he rode down the other side, sliding into the ocean toward the islands! “Yeah!” Owen hollered. “We did it! We made it!” He turned to help Watcher from the water, but she wasn’t there. He yelled for her and frantically scanned the pounding surf behind them.

  “Looking for something?” she said with a mischievous smile, head resting on the front of the skiff.

  Owen helped her on and assigned her to the rudder. His rowing seemed to help, but he knew they were at the mercy of the tides now. A passage from The Book of the King came to mind: Nothing good is ever easy.

  And a parallel saying: We learn most from that which is most difficult.

  If that’s true, Owen thought, I’m learning a lot.

  If you are a casual reader who cruises through a book picking out snippets of the story, the Kerrol may appear to you much the same as the Slimesees who lived near the portal under Owen’s home. But if you are one who pays attention to details, you will note that while the Slimesees may have been effective against one who had stumbled onto the portal, he was no match for Owen once he had breached it and had in his possession the most powerful weapon against the enemy of souls, The Book of the King. In the end, Owen had the King’s authority, which made the Slimesees shriek.

  The Kerrol, however, had a different agenda than his counterpart in Owen’s world. And the Kerrol weighed as much as one and a half killer whales—about 21,000 pounds (though he had eaten a great white shark the day before and added a few thousand pounds). Neither did he care about dieting. He swam around the islands, often showing his great fin to scare anyone bold enough to think they could reach the islands from the shore. His greenish body blended perfectly with the rock formations around him.

  Now the Kerrol floated deep below the surface, his stomach full but not satisfied. It was never satisfied, never knew when to stop eating. Schools of fish swam past, but they were too small to bother with. He didn’t even bat a scaly eyelid. He shifted and floated down to the deck of one of the many ships that lined the ocean floor. The Kerrol had sunk many, devouring crews and passengers along with contents of their galleys and mess halls. One slash of his mighty tail would open a hole in most vessels. And when years would pass without a ship’s captain having the courage to test the waters, the Kerrol would be forced to forage for his usual cuisine—anything in the water.

  But eventually people would grow brazen again, calling the stories nonsense. They would venture out, flouting the danger until they saw the hideous head rise from the water. The ocean would engulf them, and the razor-sharp claws or the pointed teeth would tear their flesh.

  The Kerrol was not above toying with his prey. Once, just for sport, he had allowed a ship to dock and waited under the rickety bridge that tied two of the islands. In the moonlight, when a couple of the two-legs went for a stroll, the Kerrol silently rose and suspended himself next to them. He plucked them both from the walkway and enjoyed them as appetizers.

  Others from the boat came looking for them, and the Kerrol picked bits of cloth from between his teeth and positioned them along the beach. The others carried long sharpened knives on their hips as they called for their friends.

  The Kerrol followed them at a distance, watching and waiting, picking off a lone searcher who got too close to the water, then two more who dared cross the rickety bridge. It was going well until a child screamed, alerting the others. It was most difficult to hide from a child. The others climbed back on their boat, only to cross the path of the Kerrol in deep water.

  It was that very ship’s bell on the deck of the mangled vessel that the Kerrol played with now as shafts of light pierced the water. And then, as if it had every right to be there, a flat object blocked the sunlight, and the Kerrol twisted to get a better look. With a mighty swish of his tail, the Kerrol rose, sucking water through his gills, sniffing for anything that might pass for food.

  The Kerrol studied the square object that seemed familiar and remembered who had piloted this vessel before—the sole two-leg who did not scream and thrash and attempt to flee but looked him in the eye and made strange sounds that pierced his heart.

  The Kerrol flew faster toward the surface, his great webbed feet clawing at the water. Despite the white shark in his belly, it rumbled for more.

  All the Kerrol could think about was the curse of the only two-leg who had ever eluded him. The stench. The courage. The falling back into the water with the waves pushing the vessel toward shore.

  The Kerrol wanted revenge. And his hatred propelled him.

  I can’t wait to wash this smell off,” Watcher said, her nose twitching.

  The clay was breaking down, and the odor was getting to Owen too. Even breathing through his mouth didn’t help any longer. “You won’t dare wash at the water’s edge,” he said. “You don’t want the Kerrol attacking.”

  “Look at the vegetation. Green trees and plants everywhere. There has to be a freshwater source. I’ll bet there’s a lagoon somewhere on the middle island, if not on all three.”

  Owen began to despair. It was not so much the fear of what lay beneath them, though he feared it. They were being driven by some unseen, uncaring force of nature, and even the pack on his back containing The Book of the King was of little comfort.

  The report of fires on the island gave him hope that Mordecai was indeed there. If they could find him, Owen would offer food as a peace offering. But the Kerrol weighed on Owen’s mind now as the sun peaked. Though the water was cold, the sun quickly warmed the skiff and Owen began to sweat, which made the jargid oil smell even worse, if that was possible.

  The water level rose as something beneath them drew close to the surface.

  He looked back at Watcher. “Do you sense danger?”
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  She wrinkled her nose. “I sense our stink.”

  “No, I mean the rise of the wa—”

  Bubbles burst on the surface, and white foam swirled. The skiff ran down a wave, and Owen slid to the edge, barely managing to stay on. Suddenly a being so huge and hideous that Owen could hardly keep his eyes open appeared before them. But how could he not look? He had to know what was surely about to take both their lives.

  Only once before had Owen’s breath been taken from him so forcefully. It was the moment he had been saved from certain death by an arm in the night, when the step he had taken should have been his last, should have sent him falling to his death back in his hometown.

  The sheer size of the talons and teeth of the creature before Owen made him want to jump in the water, if only he could swim. Of course, the thing would have been on him in a flash. The beast had a row of horns atop his head like the spikes on the crown of the Statue of Liberty. But worse was the look on his face. One of intelligence. As if he recognized either Owen or a good meal when he saw one.

  The tiny skiff rose on the swell of the ocean, bubbles and foam engulfing Owen and Watcher as a great flood cascaded from the Kerrol.

  Watcher moved forward, fighting the slippery tilt of the vessel to get closer to Owen. She emitted a low, guttural growl and clenched her teeth as if about to attack.

  Owen turned quickly, stepping between her and the Kerrol. “Stop it!” he hissed. “You’re making him even madder!”

  “I want that thing to smell us!” she cried. “Come and get your jargid, you slimy beast!”

  The Kerrol repositioned himself, clearly eager to enjoy these appetizers on the small plate.

  The skiff’s deck of saplings was as slick as ice now, and Owen’s every step was precarious.

  Watcher spread her legs and waited, as if prepared to take on the beast single-hoofedly.

  As the Kerrol’s colossal mouth opened and he surged toward them, his look suddenly changed from hunger to fear and revulsion, like a kitten catching sight of its first Great Dane. His horns pointed backward, and the scales on his back and sides rose.

  Then, strangely graceful for such a massive creature, he closed his mouth and silently allowed himself to slide back beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

  Owen fell to his knees, relieved and eager to see where the beast was headed.

  Watcher moved to the other side and peered into the clear water.

  “He smelled us!” Owen said. “He looked terrified!”

  “Shh,” Watcher said, her ears perking. The hair on her back stood.

  “What?” Owen said, scanning the sky. “An attack? That’s all we need.”

  The wind died and the skiff bobbed calmly. Owen spotted the bridge that tied one island to another in the distance. Might Mordecai be watching, even now?

  The sky began to darken into indigo—a reddish blue. The water seemed unusually calm as the skiff spun lazily. Owen knew he should be more worried about what might come from the sea than from the sky. He noticed Watcher’s hackles go up again as an unearthly breeze kicked up behind them.

  They had blown about 20 yards closer to the islands when Owen espied the huge green eyes of the Kerrol as he returned from the depths. When the outline of his body appeared, Owen set himself and held on.

  Watcher growled as the water exploded behind them and the Kerrol broke the surface, higher than before as if suspended by some unseen force.

  A wave as tall as a building crashed over the skiff and drove it under. Owen held his breath and held on for dear life, seeing Watcher do the same. When the little craft surfaced, the Kerrol lunged at them but again stopped as his hideous nostrils jerked to one side, his face contorted, and he dived back under, his long fin disappearing. In his wake the skiff rose like a surfboard on the crest of a wave.

  They flew across the water now, the wind hard at their backs, the skiff high atop the wave and vibrating. The pulse tickled Owen, and Watcher rolled with laughter, kicking, eyes wide, fur flying. As they neared the beach the sun shone on the sand.

  Perfect, Owen thought. We’re headed for a soft landing.

  But just like that, the wave pushed them straight toward jagged rocks.

  Watcher’s laughter turned to shouts. “We have to jump!”

  “I can’t swim! I’ll drown!”

  “I’ll catch you, Wormling! Jump!”

  The island seemed to be racing toward them. Owen glanced back at Watcher and found her kneeling, fear on her face.

  “I’m stuck! Go ahead and I’ll catch up.”

  No way would Owen leave her. First, she was the best friend he had ever had. Second, he couldn’t survive without her. Without another thought he lurched to her and tried to pry her hoof from the saplings. Watcher yelped. She was stuck solid.

  Owen crawled to the back of the skiff and tugged an oar from its bindings.

  “Hurry, Wormling!” Watcher yelled.

  Owen pulled himself forward with the oar as the Kerrol surfaced again and just as quickly retreated, sending another wave over them.

  Owen jammed the oar through the opening ahead of Watcher’s paw and forced it down inside the hole. That separated the saplings just enough for her hoof to pop out, and she stumbled backward. Owen lunged for her, and they both slid into the churning water headed for the rocks.

  Owen awoke on the beach to the taste of salt. The clouds had mostly disappeared, but he saw lightning in the distance.

  He rolled over, his backpack shifting, and vomited. Wiping his mouth as the surf crashed against the rocks, Owen felt for the book and the vial of jargid oil. Still there. His food was wet and salty but edible. He sat up. No open wounds. No broken bones. He felt, however, as if he’d been through an entire washing-machine cycle.

  Among the jagged rocks lay what was left of the skiff—saplings floating in the foam.

  Not far away, Watcher sprawled on the beach, her fur waterlogged, one eye open, staring. Owen rushed to her, fearing she was gone, but when he touched her shoulder, her eyes rolled back and she quickly stood.

  “I can’t believe you made it,” she said. “You were under a long time.”

  “How did we miss the rocks?”

  “I steered you away and tried to drag you here. That’s the last I remember.”

  Owen sat, shaking his head. “You saved my life. Again.”

  “Wormling, you don’t have to do everything. I think that’s why I was put with you. To help.”

  “What if I’d left you back there?” Owen said. “You’d have drowned, and I’d have smashed against the rocks like the skiff. My arms would be over there, and my head would be in some lagoon.”

  “We need each other,” she said simply, shaking the sand from her fur. “Night is coming. We should find shelter.”

  A few hundred yards into the forest they found a grove of date palm trees and plenty of other fruit. Watcher hurried off while Owen gathered wood.

  She returned a few minutes later looking refreshed. “There is freshwater that way. You can wash there and get a drink.”

  Though exhausted, Owen felt almost giddy from having escaped the Kerrol and the rocks. He slaked his thirst and bathed, then headed back to the shore, where he gathered oysters and found flintlike rocks he knew would create a spark. Watcher brought dried grass in her teeth, and they started a fire.

  As the flames grew and danced, they roasted oysters in the coals, listening to them pop and sizzle. Watcher said she had always wanted to try them. She enjoyed them, and Owen was surprised anew at how real hunger could make almost anything delicious.

  When they had eaten, they stretched out by the fire, staring at the night sky. The stars were more brilliant here than Owen could remember at home.

  Something streaked across the sky, and Watcher gasped. “A fire star. Bad luck.”

  “It’s just a meteor,” Owen said. “A tiny piece of some planet that died years ago.”

  Watcher stared at him. “How do you know this?”

&nbs
p; “You learn all kinds of stuff like that in school. Did you know you can actually travel, using the stars to guide you?”

  “You learn this from books?”

  He nodded.

  “Where does the meteor go?” Watcher said.

  “It just burns out.” Owen suddenly realized the meteor was a lot like him—on a journey, his fire quickly fading, unable to figure out where to go.

  Watcher sighed. “I think I would like your world, with its books and teachers and learning.”

  “You’d like some of it.”

  They fell silent, Owen lulled by the sound of the water lapping the shore.

  “What are you thinking about?” Watcher said finally.

  “The people of the Badlands. And the King’s Son. Maybe that’s his prison.”

  “He could be a thousand different places,” Watcher said. “You’ll know more after the initiation.”

  “If we can find this Mordecai.”

  Watcher looked as if she was about to drift off.

  Owen heard animals skittering between the trees, insects calling from the dense foliage, the surf pounding the rocks, and a gentle breeze moving palm fronds. Beautiful and peaceful as it seemed, could Owen be any farther from home? And could they be in any more trouble than to be on a remote island without a boat?

  Owen awoke to a thud in the sand next to his head. He sat up quickly to see a patch of loosened sand where Watcher had slept, but she was gone.

  Thud!

  Owen dived behind a bush. He heard laughter overhead.

  “I thought you were going to sleep all morning,” Watcher said.

  He looked up to find her high in a swaying tree, kicking at another coconut. “Watch out! Here it comes! Hey, you should have seen the sunrise from here! Beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  When she climbed down they broke open the coconuts and roasted the white meat but spilled most of the milk trying to drink it.

  Owen led Watcher to where he had found the oysters. Small animals ran from the area, leaving footprints of several species.