The Dragon shook and let loose a blast of fire from his throat that barely missed the bearer of the news. He whirled on Watcher, eyes flaming, breath like molten lava. “You’d better hope that Wormling of yours has not yet left the castle.”
The Dragon strode from the room, the being letting him pass, then following.
Watcher struggled at the ropes until her ankles bled, but she could not free herself. She began to weep, not knowing the fate of the Wormling but knowing what the Dragon had said was true. The Wormling was her friend. He had shown her great kindness, and she felt as loyal to him now as she had felt for her old friend Bardig.
At her lowest, when she could not stop crying, the voice that had spoken to her long ago came back.
“Courage, Watcher,” the voice said softly. “Be brave and believe.”
Owen skulked through the castle with Batwing, carefully avoiding guards and scythe flyers. He knew demon flyers had to be around too and wished Watcher were here to warn him. When the Dragon bellowed from the floor above, they moved to the stairwell, only to hear the clambering footsteps of his minions approaching.
Batwing raced to the ceiling and hung there unnoticed, and Owen used the handrail to climb to a windowsill. The creatures were in such a hurry and apparently in such a blinding rage that they didn’t notice him. The Dragon lumbered down the staircase Owen had just left.
As soon as the Dragon and his assemblage were out of sight, Owen jumped down and followed Batwing upstairs. Owen frantically searched three rooms for Watcher before Batwing circled back and waved him on. “Found her,” he said.
Owen rushed to her, but before he could say a word she blurted, “Invisibles all around! Alerting the Dragon now!”
“Hold still,” Owen said, and he used his sword to slice her bindings.
“Did you really kill the demon vipers?” Watcher said as they ran from the room.
Owen flashed the book from under his tunic. “And not a scratch on it.”
“Where now?” Watcher said.
Owen turned to Batwing. “Can you cause a diversion that would allow us to reach the next level?”
“I can try,” Batwing said.
“And alert Rotag,” Watcher said. “We’ll meet at the landing by the castle wall.”
Batwing flew over the staircase into the huge hall, screeching and chirping.
Watcher and Owen raced down the steps, but when they were only halfway to the next floor, Owen noticed the hair on her back standing straight.
“They see us!” Watcher said.
“Faster!” Owen said, leading her to the King’s former bedchamber.
Watcher kicked the door shut and eyed the room slowly. “So much pain. This is where he and the Queen slept. And the Son in the crib.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Owen said. He grabbed Watcher’s fur and could tell something had shot through her mind.
The door rattled and something pounded against it.
“Invisibles,” she whispered.
Screeches, unearthly and piercing.
Owen dragged Watcher to the secret wall entrance, slipped behind it, and closed it just as a blast of fire shot into the room. There was a commotion followed by footsteps, but Owen and Watcher were flying downstairs, holding the walls as they took two and three steps at a time.
An eerie light flashed behind them, and Watcher slowed. “They’ve found the passage!”
“Go!” Owen yelled.
The air swirled and smelled of fire. What had taken Owen and Prince Qwamay so long to climb now took only minutes to descend. At the bottom Owen pulled his sword, but no sooner had they entered the dungeon and turned the corner than they were met by a horde of guards with weapons drawn. Leading the group, sword in hand, stood Qwamay.
Owen’s heart sank. “You’re with them?”
“Betrayal is the hallmark of battle, my friend.”
Watcher pushed Owen into the corner where the black curtain hung against the wall.
The passageway door flew open, and flames shot from the Dragon’s mouth. He nodded to Qwamay. “Good work.” He turned to Watcher. “We never got to finish our chat. You disappoint me. On the other hand, you led me to this fine young Wormling. Rather puny, but I suppose the King has to settle for what he can get these days.”
Owen brandished his sword, making the Dragon bare his dreadful teeth and rumble, “Surely you don’t expect that to protect you. Give me the book, and I promise to make your end painless.”
“You know the prophecy. You can’t harm me.”
“I didn’t write the prophecy! That’s just someone else’s wishful thinking! Now give me the book!”
“But the agreement between you and the King—”
“Do I look like a ruler bound by signed documents? Now, this is the last time I ask politely for the book.”
Owen shoved Watcher behind him. “You’ll have to take it. I’ll never surrender it.”
The Dragon raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. Reaching with his tail, he wrapped it around Qwamay and pulled him close.
“What are you doing?” Qwamay yelled.
The Dragon narrowed his eyes at Owen. “Give me the book and I won’t harm your friend.”
“You said I would have kingdoms of my own!” Qwamay whined.
The Dragon clamped his scaly talons over Qwamay’s mouth. “Turn it over, Wormling, and I’ll not make you pay for the four vipers lying dead in my holding room. And I’ll let the Son live.”
Owen could not give up the book—it was life to him, and the secrets to the survival of the two worlds lay within. But neither could he allow the King’s Son to die at the hands of the Dragon—even if the Prince had betrayed him.
What good was the book if the King’s Son was dead? And what good was finding the King’s Son if they had no book?
“Don’t believe him,” Watcher said. “He’ll never let any of us out of here alive.”
“The book, Wormling,” the Dragon said. “Or I roast this Prince.”
Owen pulled the book from his tunic. “I’ll trade it for his life.”
The Dragon wore a smarmy smile as he pushed Qwamay and he fell in a heap at Owen’s feet. His face was bruised and his mouth bloody.
“Are you all right?” Owen said.
“I’m sorry.”
Owen knew from The Book of the King that a Wormling could never go back on his word. A deal was a deal, no matter how much it hurt his cause or made his heart sick and regardless of whether the enemy felt bound by his own word. But as Owen was about to hand over the book, a voice whispered to his soul that he should open to a certain page, one he had not yet reached in his reading. As the Dragon, black saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, drew near and reached for the book, Owen dutifully opened it and began to read:
“Hear the words of the King. The words of this book shall not depart from your mouth or your heart all your days. Think about it day and night and be careful to do everything written in it. Those who do will be prosperous and successful.”
The Dragon huffed angrily, but the guards and other beings behind him listened intently.
“But those who oppose the King shall be cut off from the land of the living. These words will be found true of the evil one among you. He will injure the heel, but the Son will crush his head.”
Owen laid the book gently on the floor.
The Dragon roared, and his eyes glowed crimson. He opened his mouth and gurgled, making those behind him cover their eyes and ears and turn away. How many times had they seen citizens in the Lowlands consumed by his fire?
Owen held up his sword, keeping both Watcher and Qwamay behind him, but the Dragon ordered everyone else from the room. His troops raced out the door, pushing each other as the Dragon’s death rattle continued.
Owen carefully backed to the corner, herding Qwamay and Watcher near the curtain to shield them from the Dragon’s incinerating breath. But when the last of his forces were gone, the Dragon shot a blast of fire into th
e hallway, consuming everything in its path. The smell of burning wood and charred earth nearly choked Owen.
Next the Dragon raised a broad-taloned foot and slammed the door so hard it broke from its hinges and shook the walls. As the behemoth advanced, Owen noticed that a huge stone near the base of the castle’s foundation jostled with each step. Might it actually be removable?
“Pull the curtain around yourselves,” Owen whispered, “and see if you can remove that stone. Get out of here at all costs.”
“We’ll not leave without you,” Watcher said.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Owen said. “Now you must!”
The Dragon towered over Owen as Watcher and Qwamay worked behind the curtain. The monster grinned a sickly smile. “Congratulations, Wormling. You have reached the end of your journey. I will serve you for dinner tonight and enjoy the first and largest portion myself.”
The Dragon snatched up The Book of the King and tossed it behind him. His great tail thumped with excitement, making the floor shake and dust and mortar fall.
Owen gripped his sword and moved away from the curtain in the corner.
Nothing in all of Owen’s nightmares, in all his imaginings of the most horrid, foul, and frightening creatures, prepared him for the close-up version of the animal before him. His teeth were jagged like a jack-o’-lantern’s and as sharp as ice picks. His scales bore prickly spines all over his body, like quills that dripped green fluid. The Dragon appeared to be through talking. His dark eyes told Owen everything he needed to know.
Behind him, Owen heard the sliding of a stone, just enough to give him hope. He sidestepped to his left, hoping to distract the Dragon from the curtain. “Fear of the King,” Owen said, “is the beginning of wisdom.”
The Dragon gnashed his teeth, lunging at Owen.
Owen felt the wind from the sweeping talons on his cheek. He stepped over charred boxes, trying to maneuver to a position of strength, but he tripped on a grate in the floor and fell, his sword clanging. The Dragon pounced, and Owen rolled right, narrowly escaping the broad stomping foot.
“Sword!” Owen called, and immediately it flew to his hand. Before he could thrust with it, a sweep of the Dragon’s great tail sent it flying into the wall. The monster was on Owen now, close enough to overpower him with his smell, worse than a thousand hog pens.
Owen dived to the floor and slid between the Dragon’s legs. The animal nearly toppled, turning to try to follow.
“Sword!” Owen called again. This time he grabbed it and slashed the Dragon’s leg, blood flowing over the scales and quills.
Owen raced into the hall, hoping to lure the Dragon away from his friends. The Dragon thundered after him, past the bones of some animal piled in a corner. Owen pressed himself against the wall in the shadows, and the Dragon scanned the area. Standing perfectly still, Owen heard the stone clunk from its position in the wall.
Yes! They’re getting away!
Owen felt on the floor and found a pebble. As the Dragon continued to search for him, Owen tossed it onto the bone pile, sending the bones tumbling. The Dragon surged toward the noise and Owen ducked past him, shooting down the corridor like lightning. He flew back into the room and skidded to a stop at the curtain. As the Dragon came stomping back, Owen whipped the curtain back and felt a cool breeze, hearing the sweet sound of water lapping against the shore. Watcher and Qwamay were already through.
Owen tried to back into the hole, but as he was pulling his shoulders through, he smelled the Dragon and felt his hot breath on his face. He tried to raise his sword, but the Dragon stood on the blade, blood dripping from his wounded leg. With an unearthly roar, the beast lunged and Owen covered his face with his hands. The Dragon’s talons slashed his arm to the bone, but Owen felt hands around his ankles, and with a huge pull, he shot through the hole and found himself outside.
Qwamay and Watcher stood over him as blood poured from his arm.
“Call for your sword, Wormling,” Watcher said.
Owen was nearly unconscious, but he managed to cry out, “Sword!”
The blade poked out the hole in the castle wall, but the Dragon had a death grip on its handle. The monster howled as his massive forearms were dragged through the tiny opening, the stone around it cracking. His broad shoulders were lodged tight, his nose peeking out. He tried to open his mouth but didn’t have room, so his snort of fire came from only his nostrils. Choking on his own smoke, he finally let the sword loose and it flew to Owen’s hands.
“Into the water!” Watcher shouted, pressing the sword blade onto Owen’s wounded arm as Qwamay dragged him over the rocks. Rotag floated nearby, waiting to help.
The Dragon struggled fiercely behind them, the stones beginning to give way as a section of the castle wall bulged. The creature’s ugly head disappeared as he backed up for another surge at the opening.
A line of archers appeared along the parapets, and their tiny arrows began piercing the water.
Rotag shouted, “Jump on and hold your breath!”
The three grabbed the gator as arrows rained down.
Then the Dragon burst through the opening, roaring, charging as the castle walls fell.
And Rotag the gator dived deep under the water with his three passengers aboard.
Owen had nearly passed out from lack of oxygen by the time they made it to their subterranean hideout. Tusin helped pull them ashore, though clearly weak from his own injuries. The sword had healed Owen’s wounded arm, but his energy was gone.
“What of the book?” Watcher said.
“It is enough that we have gained the King’s Son,” Owen said. “We can go back for the book later.”
Batwing flew down the shaft and collapsed near them. “The Dragon has the book. He has ordered all his minions to pursue and destroy you.”
“He knows that with my knowledge of the book and our having the King’s Son, we have all we need to overthrow him,” Owen said. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Watcher shrieked when she rolled Qwamay over and discovered blood. Owen pushed her out of the way and ripped open the man’s tunic. One of the archers’ tiny arrows had pierced him through the back, the tip coming out his chest.
Qwamay grabbed Owen’s hand. “My breath is slipping. You must go.”
“Where?” Owen said. He held the sword to the wound, but the arrow prevented healing.
“My father had a small cabin in the woods where he would think and dream,” Qwamay said. He shoved a bloody map into Owen’s hand. “Retreat there and rest. Plan your next move.”
“You can’t die,” Owen said. “You’re the key to everything we’ve searched for. Without you, we’re nothing.”
Qwamay pulled him close. “I am not who you think I am. Your search is not over.”
Owen lifted Qwamay. “What do you mean?”
“My father is not the King.”
“Who is he?”
“Mordecai. The captain of the guard.” Qwamay’s eyes rolled back, and his body fell limp.
Owen and Watcher found a patch of soft ground in which to bury Qwamay. Watcher seemed aloof, as if there was something she understood that he didn’t, but she wouldn’t explain.
Owen longed for his home and the simple life over the bookstore, where he could get lost in a story and not have to worry about the outcome. If he didn’t like the way a book ended, he could pick up another.
Still, with the words of The Book of the King echoing in his soul, he knew he had a long way to go in this new world before he could even dream of going home.
* * *
Two days later, under cover of darkness and aided by their new friends, Owen and Watcher reached the cabin of Qwamay’s father. As Owen leafed through a crude desk he found envelopes bearing the King’s official seal. They included commendations for Mordecai, and another contained a letter to the Scribe. So, The Book of the King had been written under the direction of the King but not by the King himself. Perhaps this Scribe would have information about the
King’s Son.
They stayed three days in the cabin by the lake, then set off at night. Owen still had Mucker in his tunic, certain that one day he would need his little friend’s help again.
In the counsel of the unholy, the Dragon opened the book and laughed. The Wormling had escaped, yes, along with his Watcher, but a mortal blow had been dealt the one they mistook for the King’s Son.
All around the table, they drank and toasted their leader. They had endured the power of the Wormling and lived to tell about it. But the Wormling had delivered a death blow to four of the most menacing creatures the Dragon had ever devised and had lived to fight another day.
When the Dragon retreated to his room that night, he took the book with him, leafing through it, scoffing, coming up with twists on the truth and turns on the holy writ. As he looked out at his kingdom, he renewed his pledge to someday rule the Highlands, the Lowlands, and his invisible kingdom.
But the verse the Wormling had read kept coming back to him, sending a shiver up his spine.
He will injure the heel, but the Son will crush his head.
About the Authors
Jerry B. Jenkins (jerryjenkins.com) is the writer of the Left Behind series. He owns the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild, an organization dedicated to mentoring aspiring authors. Former vice president for publishing for the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago, he also served many years as editor of Moody magazine and is now Moody’s writer-at-large.
His writing has appeared in publications as varied as Reader’s Digest, Parade, Guideposts, in-flight magazines, and dozens of other periodicals. Jenkins’s biographies include books with Billy Graham, Hank Aaron, Bill Gaither, Luis Palau, Walter Payton, Orel Hershiser, and Nolan Ryan, among many others. His books appear regularly on the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Publishers Weekly best-seller lists.
Jerry is also the writer of the nationally syndicated sports-story comic strip Gil Thorp, distributed to newspapers across the United States by Tribune Media Services.
The Sword of the Wormling Page 17
