The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Back at the freshwater lagoon, a waterfall was surrounded by all kinds of plants. It reminded Owen of the lagoon Robert Louis Stevenson had written about in Treasure Island.

  Watcher cocked her head and pointed. “These weren’t here last night.”

  In the sand near the waterfall were human footprints, twice the size of Owen’s.

  “Is this Mordecai a giant?” he said, realizing that whether they were Mordecai’s prints or not, he and Watcher were definitely not alone on the island.

  “Haven’t heard that,” Watcher said. “Maybe he just has big feet.”

  A few yards away they found tattered socks. They ran back and covered their campfire and buried the oyster shells and coconuts to remove any trace of their presence. Then they found the footprints again and followed them up the hill by the waterfall to a small pond.

  There they lost the trail, then picked it up again on a ridge leading around the northern side of the mountain. The path was only a foot wide in places, and though Watcher had no problem, Owen couldn’t help but look down and imagine what might happen if he fell. A vivid imagination was one of Owen’s strengths, and sometimes it allowed him to imagine the worst. He could just see his body—or what was left of it—on the rocky shoreline, now free of the jargid oil. There the Kerrol would find him and roast him on a spit.

  “You coming?” Watcher said as he lagged.

  Working their way along the well-worn path, Watcher paused to examine a footprint, but Owen knew she was just letting him catch up. When they came to a huge rock jutting out, they stepped behind it to rest. From there they could see the southern tip of the island, the makeshift bridge across the water, and the beach stretching out before them like a black stripe.

  “I wish Bardig could see this,” Watcher said breathlessly.

  “Maybe he can.” Owen smelled smoke and heard something that caused him to look up. There, in a rocky crag, lay a cave surrounded by weird-looking trees, almost like the bonsai trees in Mrs. Rothem’s classroom. Hanging from one of the trees was a rope of sorts, several inches in diameter, which had been fashioned by twisting several vines into one. It looked like it could bear a thousand pounds.

  “We’ve got to find out who’s up there,” Owen said.

  “The only way up is the grapevine,” Watcher said. “You ready?”

  Owen nodded, but before he could move he heard a grunt and a carcass flew out the mouth of the cave, shot past them, and fell on the beach. All he could tell was that it was bloody and had very little meat left on its bones.

  Watcher winked at Owen. “Whoever or whatever lives up there shouldn’t be hungry at least.”

  “Comforting,” Owen whispered.

  Watcher climbed behind him, suggesting places for Owen to step. It was slow going, but he held tightly to the grapevine and tried not to look down. About 10 feet from the ledge leading to the cave, Owen sent a loose rock skittering down the slope. No sooner had he looked down to watch it than his head spun at how high he was. His arms ached, his hands trembled, and his legs felt like rubber bands.

  “Just a little farther, Wormling,” Watcher said. “You can do it.”

  He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the goal above. He had taken one more step when something big and hairy emerged from the cave. Two enormous eyes peered over the edge and then disappeared.

  “Keep going!” Watcher said.

  But as Owen reached hand over hand, he froze when all he could see was an arm the size of a tree trunk with a machete in its hand. It swung toward the grapevine.

  No!”

  Owen’s shout must have startled the bushy being, because his machete blow didn’t hit squarely, and he cut only half the grapevine tied to a massive tree. Watcher and Owen hung precariously (which is to say they nearly wet themselves), swinging and hearing the sickening stretching and tearing of the vine.

  They were utterly at the mercy of Machete Man.

  “We’re friends!” Owen cried.

  The man peered over the edge again, this time with an ugly sneer. “Go back down, and I’ll let you live!” His voice boomed like thunder.

  Retreat after all they’d been through? Though terrified, Owen couldn’t imagine it. Something had changed within him, and he found himself willing to risk death rather than turn back now.

  “Are you deaf?” the man roared, drawing back the blade again.

  “You can’t kill us!” Watcher yelled. “He’s a Wormling!”

  Owen had shut his eyes, waiting for the second, fatal slash of the machete. But all he heard was silence. He glanced up to see the man leaning over the edge, angling his head so he could see past Owen to Watcher.

  “What did you say?”

  “A Wormling!” she said, speaking faster than Owen had ever heard her. “I’m a Watcher in the Valley of Shoam and he arrived just days ago and we’ve come for the initiation!”

  “Shoam? You know Bardig?”

  “Of course! At the head of the valley. But Bardig is no longer with us. Dreadwart killed him.”

  “Dreadwart,” the man said, the bombast gone from his tone. It was as if he remembered something Owen could not even imagine.

  “But Dreadwart was killed too,” Watcher said.

  “That ought to reap the Dragon’s ire.”

  “Oh, we’ve suffered since then,” Watcher said. “That’s why we need the Wormling initiated. Bardig’s widow told us only one person knows the initiation rite. We have the scroll, but no one can read it.”

  Owen hung there, just feet from the ledge, his body screaming for relief. His fingers were knotted around the now-flimsy vine, and his legs and feet cramped with the effort of hanging on.

  The man who held their fate seemed to study them, his gaze darting back and forth between them. His face had been overtaken by his beard, mustache, and eyebrows, like a rock wall engulfed by vines, and his eyes peeked out from deep caverns. His hair was black and thick and curly, covering his head like a helmet. His great beard, which flowed like a forest from his chin to his chest, bore flecks of gray and red. Owen wasn’t sure if this was his natural color or something left over from dinner. His lips and prominent nose were as red as cherries.

  He wore simple sleeveless clothing made of animal skins, the tails of which hung from his back. His pants were ragged and dirty, rolled up at the cuffs. The knees were worn through.

  Most striking was an ugly scar of red patches and skin growths visible even under all that hair. It seemed to begin at his cheek and run all the way across his face and down his neck to the end of his right arm.

  “Please let us come up,” Owen said, dizzy from fatigue.

  “Who are you looking for?” the man snarled.

  “Mordecai,” Owen managed.

  “No one here by that name. Now go.”

  When the man backed away from the ledge, Watcher nudged Owen. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Go on up! He knew Bardig. He has to be Mordecai. Do you see anyone else on this island?”

  Owen hung there as the cut in the vine creaked and stretched even wider.

  “Go, Wormling! Now! Please!”

  “Watcher! Hold still! You’re breaking the vine!” They swung as the vine fibers began to snap. Owen should have moved when she told him, but now it was too late. It was giving way—and fast. “Grab something!”

  Before Watcher could react, Owen felt the final snap and the sickening knowledge that they were free-falling into the abyss. There was nothing to grab on to, so he squeezed the vine even tighter. Weightless now, he could only pray that he would somehow lose consciousness before impact with the stone canyon floor.

  Owen had plunged only a few feet when the vine grew taut again and they stopped and hung in midair. The jerk made him almost lose his grip, and he found himself slipping, his feet resting on Watcher’s shoulders.

  “Sorry!” he hollered, but Watcher was looking up past him.

  Not only had the vine stopped, but now it was being lifted! Owen turned and saw the hai
ry man pulling the vine, hand over hand, as they slowly ascended. Finally, the man grabbed Owen’s jacket and pulled him to safety. One more pull and Watcher scampered onto the ledge.

  Owen dropped to his knees, exhausted, but noticed Watcher gazing out over the beach and the ocean. “Quite a view,” she said, panting.

  The hairy man sniffed. “I didn’t come here for the view.”

  “What did you come here for?” Watcher said.

  The man just headed for his cave.

  Owen quickly rose and followed him, somehow no longer afraid. “We came all this way to find Mordecai. We risked being eaten by that thing out there and almost died on your vine. The least you could do is tell us who you are.”

  The man turned and stared at Owen with his pinpoint black eyes.

  “Are you Mordecai?” Owen said.

  The man ruminated like a cow chewing its cud. “What difference could it possibly make?”

  “Tell us!”

  The man paused. “I used to be called that. No longer.”

  “Why?”

  “That is not your business, nor is it your business to be here. You’ll find fresh vines behind the tree. Wedge them tightly before you go down.”

  Watcher drew closer, brushing Owen’s elbow with her shoulder as the man disappeared into the cave. “We have risked everything to find you,” she called after him, her voice echoing. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t trouble you further. But there are lives at stake. Please look at the scroll. The Wormling has it in The Book of the King.”

  Mordecai returned to the mouth of the cave, eyes wide. “You have the book?”

  Owen nodded.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “I didn’t find it. It found me. A man named Mr. Page visited my father’s bookstore—”

  Mordecai held up a hand and scanned the sky. “Come inside. Both of you. Quickly.”

  Owen couldn’t place the odor at first, but after a few steps inside the cave, he realized it was a hint of jargid musk.

  Mordecai had hewed a crude fireplace into the wall, and some kind of animal was roasting over the coals. Pelts of an animal Owen didn’t recognize were stacked beside a blocky wood table. Fruit and vegetables hung on a vine strung at the back of the cave near a hammock—again of skins—suspended between four huge timbers.

  Mordecai plainly did not care about venturing into the civilized world ever again. Owen found it difficult to tear his eyes from the man, with his great fields of hair and the nearly endless scar.

  “The book,” Mordecai said, grabbing a torch and pointing to the only chair.

  As Owen sat and placed his pack on the table, the big man settled on the floor and Watcher edged closer. Owen set the half-empty vial of jargid musk beside the pack and reached for the book.

  Mordecai squinted. “Where did you get that stuff?”

  Owen told him.

  “Erol and his clan are a good bunch.”

  Owen nodded.

  “Do you know why the Kerrol hates jargid musk so much?”

  “No idea,” Owen said.

  Mordecai swirled the oil in the bottle and set it back on the table. “Nor do I. I didn’t know sea creatures could smell.” He rose and turned the spit, muttered something under his breath, and sat back down. “I hoped the Kerrol would end my life. It feeds on such as me. And you. But whether it was the stench or that it couldn’t stand to eat something as ugly as it is, I don’t know.”

  “We’re not ugly,” Watcher said.

  Mordecai raised an eyebrow. “Come, come, the book.”

  Owen dug it out, and Mordecai cradled it like a long-lost baby, running his massive, scarred hand over the cover. “Describe the man you say gave you this.”

  “Older, longish gray hair under a large hat. A coat that reached the ground.”

  “Did he wear a ring?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Mordecai inched closer. “What about his eyes?”

  “Two,” Owen said.

  Watcher giggled.

  Mordecai was clearly not amused. “What color? Anything different about them?”

  “Blue,” Owen said. “And when he looked at me, it felt like—”

  “He was piercing your soul?”

  “Exactly. You know Mr. Page?”

  Mordecai pulled the scroll from the book. “Why did he give this to you?”

  Owen sensed Watcher’s unease and turned to try to calm her. But before he could speak, she pursed her lips and shook her furry head. “You don’t have to answer these questions. You’re a Wormling. He should bow to you.”

  Owen turned back. “Mr. Page must have known I was a Wormling. He told me to read the book, and now I know I’m to search for the King’s Son. But it was the initiation I was unaware of, and Watcher and the others say I need it.”

  Mordecai looked from the scroll to Owen and back as he pored over the letters. He handed it back. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ll prepare another vine for your descent.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” Owen said.

  Mordecai stared at him, then rose and lumbered out of the cave.

  “That’s it?” Watcher called after him. “We come all this way and you won’t help?”

  Mordecai returned, dark eyes fierce. “You don’t know what you’re asking. The rite calls for more than simply reciting a few words and patting him on the head. There’s work involved. Training. Lots of it.”

  “I’m not afraid of training,” Owen said. “If it will help me find the King’s Son—”

  “You’ll never find him,” Mordecai snapped. “You won’t last a day out there.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Watcher said. “We made it past the Kerrol. The Wormling escaped the Slimesees. And Dreadwart, the demon flyers—”

  “The Dragon will never let you find him.” Mordecai sighed and sat near the fire, turning the meat again. “He has too many weapons, too many eyes.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Watcher said. “Extra eyes and ears for the Wormling.”

  “A Watcher cannot engage in battle. You can only warn him of danger, not prevent it.”

  “But if you trained me,” Owen said, “I could counter anything he throws at me.”

  Mordecai shook his head. “No training can prepare you for that kind of evil. He devours. He destroys. He kills. He burns.” He furrowed his brow. “Why would Page have gone to another world and chosen you?”

  “Do you not trust this Mr. Page?” Watcher said. Mordecai looked startled, like a deer in headlights. “If Mr. Page were here and asked you to initiate the Wormling, would you do it?”

  Mordecai looked away. “Of course.”

  “Mr. Page sent this Wormling here to find the King’s Son. If you refuse to help, you’ll go against Mr. Page’s wishes.”

  Mordecai moved to the spit and tore off a chunk of meat. He broke it into three pieces, popped one in his mouth, and handed the others to Owen and Watcher.

  It did not look or smell as appetizing as the hanging fruit, but when Watcher sniffed hers, bit into it with her gleaming teeth, and shrugged, Owen tentatively tasted his. Though it was gamy and salty, he was able to force it down. But even after a breakfast of only coconut, his hunger was not enough to season this meat.

  Mordecai paced. “I can see you have a fire inside you. Whether that is enough to survive the slings and arrows of the evil one remains to be seen. I would hate to see you sliced by a demon flyer.”

  “You’ll train him?” Watcher said.

  Mordecai wiped his face. “Only if you’re dead serious about it, Wormling.” He pulled a hook from the wall and took down the fruit, revealing an inner cave. “You can sleep there, out of sight of the invisibles. They don’t bother me much anymore.”

  “How long will the initiation take?” Owen said.

  “Depends on how you take to the training. We’ll know when the time has come for the initiation ceremony.” He handed Owen another piece of meat.

  “Is eating th
is part of the training?” Owen said.

  “As a matter of fact, it is. Not to mention a pleasure. Jargid is my favorite.”

  Owen’s stomach clenched.

  “My clothes are made of jargid skins. I also have jargid jerky curing near your sleeping quarters. I’ve been eating it since I was a boy.”

  As Owen slept on jargid skins in the back chamber of Mordecai’s cave, he dreamed fantastic scenes. The sky was black, the landscape shrouded in fog, and people ran in fear. Though he did not recognize them, somehow he shared their dread. They looked over their shoulders as they fled, fright etched on their faces. Women gathered children in their arms as men trailed them, pushing, urging them faster.

  And then, out of the gloom, they were cut down one by one, some killed, some injured, some burned and screaming.

  One boy ran ahead of the rest of the villagers. He wore moccasins and loose-fitting clothes of leather. His long hair was tied in the back, like a rat tail. He ran swiftly and was one of the last survivors. In Owen’s dream, he struggled to catch up to the boy, following him to the crest of a hill. Above Owen appeared the long talons of some creature, and a burst of flame turned the hill into an inferno.

  As the fire pummeled the earth, the boy looked back, and it was at this point that Owen, shaking his head in his sleep and thrashing about in the jargid skins, saw his face. Just before the fire engulfed him and burned him to a crisp, Owen bolted straight up and bumped his head on the cave wall. The boy’s face had been his own. Owen was the boy in the dream.

  Owen smelled smoke and squinted to make out the silhouette of Mordecai stoking embers. No wonder his dream had included fire.

  Watcher slept soundly just outside the opening to Owen’s chamber, mouth open, tongue lolling, ears flopped back. “I’m going to catch you,” she said in her sleep, then laughed as if she were playing.

  Owen rearranged himself under the jargid skins, trying to stay warm. He’d assumed sleeping in a cave would guarantee warm nights, but a heavy mist had blown in with the surf, bringing with it a damp cold. The nightmare had shaken him, and now sleep was elusive. He draped the largest skin around his shoulders, padding out to the fire.