But as soon as the Wormling had begun his training, Watcher sensed a change. Owen was becoming more aware of himself, more sure, more capable. He learned to swim. When she saw him with his sword, her stomach turned. She was losing him to a world of battle and crusades that could take him in any direction.
It was during these lonely times that Watcher sought solace in her hammock at the end of the island. Mordecai seemed so wrapped up in the initiation training that it seemed he, too, wanted her to fade into the background, seen but not heard.
And so she did fade, for a time, becoming a mere spectator actually taking delight in some of the exercises. One of her favorites had been at the hissing stones near the bridge that had been torn apart. In a shallow pool at the end of a lagoon lay a mist-enshrouded spot where water bubbled with heat from under the earth. Watcher did not believe this water could really be hot when the ocean was so cool, but one leg into the pond convinced her.
The Wormling’s task had been to make it from one side of the pond to the other without falling in. Mordecai instructed the Wormling to study the water and traverse it barefooted when ready. The Wormling took his time—too careful for Watcher’s taste—planning each step.
Watcher became so frustrated with the Wormling that she stepped in front of him and bounced over the rocks with ease, sure-footed and confident. Mordecai had laughed, but the Wormling had not. Especially when he nearly fell.
Enamored with Mordecai’s attention, Watcher made a return trip, but at the next-to-last rock, something hot shot up her back and she screamed, falling.
Mordecai howled, and Watcher did not appreciate the laughter at her expense. The Wormling tried to help her up, but she would have nothing to do with him. She watched from a distance as he went back and forth over the rocks, even anticipating the gusts of steam.
“Good,” Mordecai had said. “Excellent. Now we will try it again, only this time blindfolded.”
To Watcher’s surprise, the Wormling almost made the trip successfully. Almost. Near the edge, the steam zapped him from behind and he fell into the hot water. She had laughed hysterically, but that seemed to make him all the more determined.
Now, as she lay in the hammock watching the stars begin to appear, her stomach growled at the thought of the fish and skolers and brawn. She was the one missing out on the feast, not them. They probably didn’t even miss her.
Watcher thought of her family, the meals her mother used to cook, the way her father relished each morsel and complimented the woman. Watcher closed her eyes and remembered the laughter, the love, and a pain struck deep in her heart—pain of loneliness and fear at the loss of both parents. She would never see them again, at least not in this life.
In that hammock, swinging gently with the wind, Watcher decided to return home. She would make a skiff of her own, and she had enough jargid skins and oil left that she could slather herself and keep safe from the Kerrol.
The Wormling did not need her any longer. He wouldn’t even miss her. He could go on his one-man crusade, find the King’s Son, and be the hero of both worlds without her help. She was sure of it.
Her mind filled with these thoughts until her ears twitched and her body went rigid. Something was coming. Something terrible.
Owen removed his heavy pack and set it down as he ate by the fire. “Why would I have to go back to my world to fulfill my mission?”
“The prophecy,” Mordecai said. “Are not the four portals included?”
“Yes, it says that when they have been breached—”
“And who can breach the portals but a Wormling? Who has the power?”
Owen let another bite of fish lie on his tongue, enjoying the taste. He couldn’t remember enjoying a meal as much. “There is so much to do. So much to remember. What if I make a mistake? What if I fail?”
Mordecai grinned. “You are not alone, Wormling. There is more to your journey than simply your efforts and the efforts of those who travel with you.” He leaned back in the sand and put his hands behind his head. “I am hardly one to speak about such things, but there is purpose even in the mistakes.”
“Sir?”
“Do you think it was a mistake that Bardig’s life was taken?”
“It was a tragedy.”
“Of course, but was it a mistake? Were the consequences of his death—the confrontation with his son and the flood in the Valley of Shoam—all blunders?”
Owen thought a moment. “I believe I was brought here for a purpose, and that purpose included meeting Bardig. But it also included Dreadwart and the terrible . . .” He shivered. “I don’t even like to think about it.”
“Oh, but you must. For your quest has as much to do with what’s up here”—Mordecai pointed to his head—“as it does here”—he pointed to his heart—“and here.” He spread his hands to encompass the island. “Do you really believe there was a clear purpose for your presence here? Until you believe it with everything in you—your mind, your heart, and the hands that will hold the sword—you cannot truly embrace what you must do.”
“I have to believe the death of Bardig was part of the plan? How could something so awful result in any kind of good?”
“It brought you here, didn’t it?” Mordecai said.
“And through dangerous waters and past the Badlands . . .” Owen looked at the sky, a thousand thoughts filling him. “Erol. His clan. I would never have met them if it hadn’t been for Bardig’s death.”
“Yes, yes. And no doubt things happened to you in the other world that were equally distasteful, that you wished you could change, but they happened for some purpose. Perhaps the Lowlands will benefit from one of those.”
“If I hadn’t run from Gordan, I wouldn’t have felt the arm in the night.”
“Excuse me?”
Owen told him what had happened; then his mind turned, as minds are wont to do, and he directed Mordecai’s words back to the man himself. “If what you say is true, there is a purpose in everything that happens, good or bad.”
“We see good and bad from only our own perspectives, Wormling. There is a higher perspective.”
“I see,” Owen said, as if grasping one of the shock fish and tossing it Mordecai’s way. “Then whatever brought you here, whatever gave you those scars and made you want to be eaten by the Kerrol, all that was part of the plan as well. All of that had purpose.”
Mordecai’s mouth dropped. “You are a meddler, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to understand. If your words are true, they are true for both of us.”
“You don’t know what I did.”
“You yourself said there is purpose even in the mistakes.”
“And I live with them every day.”
“But do you embrace them, Mordecai? Do you see that they sent you here, brought us together, and allowed you to find the stolen chest and the birth documents and the Queen’s jewelry?”
Owen had not seen Mordecai look so disgruntled since their first meeting when he nearly cut the vine. “What do you know?” Mordecai snapped. “If it hadn’t been for me, none of what happened to you would ever have taken place. Why, I—”
Owen was sitting forward, eager to hear the secrets, the awful things that had made Mordecai an exile, when a powerful wind every bit as devastating as the waves in the ocean swept over him. It nearly sucked him off the ground and was accompanied by the violent rustling of leaves in the bushes near the beach trail.
“Visibles!” Watcher shouted. “Scythe flyers!”
“To the cave!” Mordecai yelled, closing the chest and putting it under his arm.
Owen grabbed the sword and followed Mordecai to the vine.
“There’s no time!” Watcher screamed. “They’re on top of us!”
Mordecai was already 20 feet off the ground, his big hands taking in yards of vine as he scaled the wall like a stepladder.
Owen leaped to the vine just as the huge tail of a scythe flyer appeared above the trees. The massive wings eclipsed the moon,
and the horrifying screams of the animal made Owen cringe.
Owen was only a few feet up the wall when another flyer slashed his tail across the vine above Mordecai, cutting it like a hot knife through a ripe brawn. Owen looked up in time to see Mordecai grab in vain at smooth rocks and tumble backward, the giant man’s backside blotting out the sky as it hurtled toward him.
“No!” Watcher yelled, darting from the bushes, her momentum carrying her into Owen and knocking him to the ground just as Mordecai landed with a terrific thud in the sand. The chest landed next to his head.
The man sat up, gasping, leaving a huge indentation in the sand. Gaining a little air, he struggled to his feet and retrieved the chest.
“So, what was the purpose of that?” Owen asked Mordecai.
“Sometimes . . . the only purpose we can see . . . is to run . . . and survive. Now let’s do it.”
The three ran into the jungle just as another scythe flyer skimmed the trees. Owen thrust up his sword, but the tail clanged on it and knocked him to the ground.
“Don’t worry, Wormling!” Mordecai said. “There will be time to fight these beasts!”
“I thought you said these were invisibles,” Owen yelled at Watcher.
“No, I clearly said visibles!”
Something smacked Owen from behind and sent him sprawling, the sword plopping into a stream. The sword began to smoke, and at first Owen feared it was disintegrating. Instead, it was producing a covering for them.
“Pick it up!” Mordecai yelled. “Head for the waterfall!”
I’m sorry I wasn’t here to warn you,” Watcher said, catching her breath inside the cave behind the falls.
“Yes, where were you?” Owen said.
Watcher looked away.
“Can they get in here, Mordecai?” Owen said.
“They hate the water, and the smallness of the opening will deter them,” Mordecai said. “I’ve never had them attack like that.” He put a hand in the small of his back and stretched, grimacing. “Probably smelled our dinner. Can’t blame them.”
“Your pack, Wormling!” Watcher said.
“Oh no! The book! I left it out there!”
In a flash, Watcher was out of the cave, shooting through the waterfall and the lagoon, Owen not far behind. He held his sword high, and steam poured from it as he ran through the shallows and the forests, trying to keep up.
Owen’s training kicked in, and he felt strength in his legs and upper body from running and climbing the vine so many times. Still the sword felt heavy, but he was determined to use it if forced to.
Owen pushed through the fronds and bushes near the beach and finally stopped beside Watcher.
Someone or something was hunched over Owen’s backpack. Its back looked like a giant praying mantis with large, striated wings tucked firmly in place. It was dark, like cola, the same as a cockroach, with gnarly, elongated fingernails that resembled the claws of some wild bird. When it turned, Owen saw that the face was humanlike, with a beak nose but with aspects of an insect or a reptile. At the ends of its long, sticklike arms were sharp pincers. Its eyes were huge and round with thousands of hexagonal segments. It tilted its head at Owen and Watcher, as if studying them. Owen swore he heard a zoom lens and a click.
Most frightening, it held The Book of the King in one of its talons. Owen slowly raised his sword and pointed it at the being.
It simply stared, cocking its head the other way. Finally it spoke in a high-pitched, nasally tone that sounded like scratches and screeches. “So, it is true. The Wormling exists.”
“Give me the book,” Owen said with an authority that surprised even him.
The being chuckled, which sounded more like a whistling snort. It swung the book around behind its body, and two fangs protruding from the roof of its mouth dripped green liquid onto its lips. “You have something His Majesty requires. I have come to retrieve it.”
“The King?” Owen said.
“The Dragon,” Mordecai said, emerging from the foliage. “This is one of his minions. His RHM.”
“Ah, Mordecai,” the being said, hissing. “You should treat me with more respect.”
“Respect for one who would kill, steal, and destroy? You are in league with the chief murderer and thief.”
The eyes of the monster turned red as he moved away from the fire.
Owen held the sword at arm’s length, shaking as he pointed it.
“Be careful of the venom,” Mordecai whispered. “He can shoot it a great distance. One drop will kill a grown man.”
“Do I detect jealousy?” the monster said as Mordecai, Owen, and Watcher slowly separated. “That I am now chief handler of the most powerful being above or below is no reason to slander me or His Highness.”
“I do not envy one destined to lose,” Mordecai said, still moving. “And how does one slander a being with no character and no backbone?”
RHM laughed anew. “For being so spineless, someone seems to have left an indelible mark on your mind as well as your body.” The monster twitched his nose, and Watcher screamed as the venom shot.
Mordecai barely lunged out of the way. “Don’t attack, Wormling! His venom is too potent.”
Owen’s arms were becoming leaden. “What about the book?” he said, focused on the monster.
“We can retrieve the other copy,” Mordecai said. “Let him be.”
“There is no other copy, and you know it,” RHM said.
“What does the Dragon want with it?” Owen said.
“Maybe he wants it for the same reason you do,” the being said, now holding it in front of him. “Does the little Wormling want his precious book back? Come and get it!”
“Wormling, no!” Mordecai snapped.
“Don’t waste your energy on this beast,” Watcher snarled.
“Come, Wormling. His Majesty would be delighted to make your acquaintance. I can take you there now, and you can read the book on the way. Perhaps you can convince him to make some kind of treaty with—”
“There can be no treaty with a prince of lies!” Mordecai shouted.
“Silence! You must not talk about His Majesty that way!” The being again shot his venom, and the plants and trees it hit immediately shriveled and died.
The air was suddenly disturbed, and RHM looked up with a start, giving Owen his chance. The Wormling charged with his sword, knowing he had thoroughly surprised the monster. But just as he heaved the weapon back to strike, Watcher screamed and a scythe flyer split the air. The flyer blocked Owen’s swing, sending the sword whirling through the air like a windmill.
RHM hovered over the ground, his massive wings spread like a tent behind him. Teeth dripping again, the monster said, “Now, Wormling, you will see who loses the battle—”
Mordecai roared, “You know the prophecy! You know what will happen if you so much as touch a hair of the Wormling’s head.”
The being seethed as venom dripped from his horrid fangs. “There are ways to get to the Wormling, Mordecai. And we will succeed. Just as we succeeded with the one you know so well.”
Mordecai gritted his teeth.
The being rose wildly, thrusting his wings in the air, holding tight to the book.
“What prophecy, Mordecai?” Owen said. “Why can’t he kill me?”
“Neither the Dragon nor his right-hand man may touch the Wormling.”
“Or what?”
“No one knows. It was a secret agreement between the beast and the King.”
As RHM soared away, Mordecai spliced new vines to the one hanging along the rocks. Once they were safely inside the cave, Owen collapsed on his jargid skins, as dejected and low as he had been since he had come to the Lowlands.
“Do not despair, Wormling,” Mordecai said.
“Mr. Page charged me to protect that book with my life! And Mucker is inside that book. When the Dragon discovers him . . .” Owen’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Without the book, what do we have?”
Mordecai sat at the foot
of Owen’s makeshift bed. “The book itself is not as important as how much of the book is in you.”
“I haven’t even read all of it yet, let alone allowed it to penetrate me. He’ll destroy it, and I’ll never find the King’s Son.”
“Remember, nothing happens that cannot be used for good. The power of the book remains, even when it is not present.”
“Can that be?”
Mordecai smiled. “Our final phase of training begins tomorrow. Rest, Wormling.”
“How can I when Mucker is on his way to the Dragon’s lair?”
Mordecai slipped a hand into the pocket of his tunic. “Oh, I thought you might like to see what I found on the ground out there.”
In Mordecai’s palm sat a small white worm whose teeth were growing back.
Mucker looked as thrilled to see Owen as Owen was to see him. He tucked Mucker in beside him and fell asleep. And even unconscious, Owen found The Book of the King was still with him.
As it has always been, so shall it ever be. The King is on his throne and is in control.
Owen wrote as much of The Book of the King as he could remember during his spare time over the next few days, jotting thoughts and phrases and stories. Watcher helped jog his memory, staying close. It seemed she had a new resolve to stick with him, no matter what the cost.
Spare time was hard to find, however, as Mordecai kept to his word about the final phase of training: really learning the sword.
“Will the Dragon destroy the book, Mordecai?”
“How can he destroy something held so deep in the heart that even a sword would not be able to separate its thoughts and intents?”
Mordecai took Owen into the inner recesses of the cave, through a small passage that led down an entire level to a circular room with just enough space for Mordecai to use a stick to parry with Owen.
The Sword of the Wormling Page 10
