The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Waiting, watching, wondering,

  A stirring from our King.

  When will he come?

  Winter? Spring?

  The signs all around.

  “I hear the future.

  I feel the past.

  I see light from a distant star.

  It could be today or ten thousand years.

  We wait for you, Wormling.

  We wait for you, Wormling.”

  That night Owen was escorted through a series of tunnels and stairs to the deepest part of the caves, where a guest room had been set aside for royalty.

  “We have entertained visitors of importance before,” Erol said, “but we have never been this excited.”

  “Thank you,” Owen said. “And my friend . . . ?”

  “She has a room of her own, and Kimshi will see to her needs.”

  A gaggle of tiny children had followed Erol and Owen and now stood pointing and whispering and tittering.

  “Don’t stare, children,” Erol said.

  “It’s all right,” Owen said. “They’ve never seen a Wormling, and I’ve never seen their kind.”

  He smiled and motioned them forward, and they came running to his side, giggling and gawking. Owen picked up the smallest girl, and her eyes grew big when he hoisted her almost to the ceiling.

  “Are you really a Wormling?” an older boy said, sniffling and rubbing his nose.

  “So I’m told.”

  “But did you come through the earth, following the chomper?”

  Owen nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Starbuck,” he said, beaming.

  “Well, Starbuck, would you like to see him? hold him?”

  “Could I?”

  The children looked at one another, mouths wide, squealing.

  Owen pulled the book from his pack, and everyone gasped. “This is Mucker,” he said, exposing the tiny worm to the torchlight.

  Mucker seemed to roll his eyes at Owen, clearly having just awakened and not in the mood.

  Starbuck carefully examined him, tickling his cheek to try to see his teeth.

  Mucker looked at Owen pleadingly.

  “He’s a bit shy right now. Let’s let him go back to sleep.” As Owen put the worm away, he described how big Mucker had become, and the children looked incredulous.

  “I wish I could be a Wormling,” Starbuck said.

  “Maybe if things go well,” Owen said, “there won’t be need for another.”

  “We must let our guest get some rest,” Erol said. “Come, children.”

  The kids groaned, and Owen had to shake each one’s hand. Then several wanted hugs, which made the first few envious and they had to return for hugs too. Owen laughed and ate up the attention. Starbuck tried to linger, but Erol yanked his ear and told him to get to bed.

  When the children were gone, Owen asked Erol if he would like to see The Book of the King.

  “Would it be permitted? I don’t want to overstep.”

  Owen pulled the book from his pack again.

  “My thanksgiving to you, sire.”

  “Please call me Owen.”

  “I could never.”

  “I insist.”

  Erol took the book and opened it carefully, running his fingers over the ornate lettering. “We have a song about the book we’ll have to sing before you leave.”

  “How do you remember your songs?”

  “Some are passed down from our forebearers. And of course we invent new ones too, but none of us read or write. You could say they are written on our hearts.”

  “Would you like to hear some of what the book has to say?”

  “Oh! Could I?”

  As Owen read, Erol closed his eyes and seemed to breathe in the text, its very language appearing to transport him. When Owen stopped, Erol wiped away a tear. “I could write a thousand songs just about what you have read. Imagine the songs my people could sing if we could read.”

  “One day you will, Erol. The Dragon will be defeated, and his curse will be lifted. All the land will read and sing and rejoice.”

  “Oh, how I long for that day.”

  Finally Owen was alone in the secluded room at the back of the cave. The bed consisted of a huge sack filled with straw that smelled like a fresh hayfield. What a luxury after having slept on the ground for days!

  But even after settling into the deep softness, Owen couldn’t sleep and found himself listening to the receding water. He tried recalling all the hills and valleys he and Watcher had traversed, but still sleep eluded him. Rising quietly, he climbed into the antechamber above, past the room of the snoring and snorting Erol and Kimshi, and found the ladder to a hole in the ceiling of the cave.

  The clouds had retreated, and a billion stars twinkled from the dark sky. The moon crested in the distant west, and Owen found a crag where he could sit and study the land. No way could he and Watcher climb here and walk to the shore. One wrong step and it was hundreds of feet to the bottom.

  “A thousand pardons, Wormling,” Erol said, padding out and sitting next to him. He yawned and stretched. “Something on your mind?”

  Owen pointed. “The Badlands. Watcher sensed invisibles there.”

  “Demon flyers.”

  “She says they are herders, but herders of what?”

  “Your kind,” Erol said, stroking his hairy face. “Humans. Sometimes we can see them with the viewing circle.” He held out his hands, shaping what it looked like, and Owen guessed it was a telescope.

  “What do you see?” Owen asked.

  “Smoke from campfires in the night. Lines of beings moving in the early light to underground entrances.”

  “Caves?”

  “Mines. Because the people are evenly spaced, Kimshi believes they may be chained together. It seems a good theory.”

  “What would they be mining?”

  “Whatever the Dragon requires,” Erol said. “We have seen sparkling piles on the ground there. In the middle of the day, when the temperature becomes unbearable, vapors rise from the desert floor, and it’s like looking into a furnace.”

  “Why would the Dragon need minerals from underground?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps it’s fuel for the fires of his thousands of encampments.”

  “Those people must be miserable,” Owen said.

  “I don’t see how anyone can live in such heat, let alone work in it.”

  “Have you ventured there? tried to help them?”

  Erol sighed. “It is all we can do to stay safe here, given our size and the dangers. The young ones sometimes yearn to leave. Starbuck has been after me to let them go on a camping trip. We can’t let them because they’re no match for the demon flyers. But we did let them go on a picnic.”

  A lump swelled in Owen’s throat as he thought of the humans of the Badlands. “There must be something we can do. Even if we tried to communicate that help is on the way.”

  “The way to help them, Wormling, is to fulfill your mission. Find the King’s Son. When the two worlds are united, the Badlands will be transformed. Doesn’t the book prophesy that?”

  “It doesn’t specifically mention the Badlands—at least, not that I’ve read so far. But it does say that every low place will be raised, every mountain will descend, and the rough and rugged land will stretch out like a garden and be fertile. Then the inhabitants will no longer live in fear.”

  “How wonderful!” Erol said. “To think that this mountain will be leveled and we won’t have to live in caves or fear the invisibles or hear their shrieks. Oh, to be able to put down our weapons and take up our instruments!”

  Owen and Erol chatted all night, talking of the past, the future, and where the King’s Son might be. Just when Owen felt drowsy enough to sleep, the sun emerged over the peaks in the east and took away his breath. Pink and purple clouds filled the horizon, and Erol rose quickly, telling Owen to wait there a moment. As if he could have pulled himself away.

  The little creature returned wi
th a crudely fashioned telescope. “Look there—not at the sun but below it.”

  Owen pointed the lens, twisting it to bring the scene into focus. Water rippled as it reached the shore, and in the distance three distinct landmasses rose from the sea.

  “The islands of Mirantha,” Erol said.

  Owen had never seen an ocean except in pictures. The beach looked inviting, and he imagined children building sand castles and teenagers playing volleyball and throwing Frisbees.

  “Have you been there?” Owen said, unable to take his eyes from the shore. “Have your children seen it?”

  “My children do not know it even exists,” Erol said gravely. “We never mention it in front of them. Starbuck would set out the same day.”

  “They would have so much fun.”

  “And they would die. If the demon flyers didn’t get them, the Kerrol would.”

  “Watcher mentioned the Kerrol on our way here but didn’t give details. What is it?”

  “Your friend told us you survived an attack from a Slimesees. I have never seen one of those, but I have watched the Kerrol ascend from the depths of the waters and leap into the air. It is enormous with hideous teeth and scales. When we sing the song of the Kerrol, the children make us stop. It gives them nightmares. Believe me, no one dares enter those waters.”

  “Then how did Mordecai get onto one of the islands?” Owen said.

  “I do not know this Mordecai, but we have seen the smoke from strange fires there in the night. We always believed the islands to be deserted and these fires some natural phenomenon. We also believe the Kerrol forages on the beaches for wild hogs and monkeys.”

  As the sun rose, vapors lifted from the earth to the north in the Badlands, and Owen turned the scope that way. He saw the beings—slaves?—that hurried in a single line up an incline and disappeared into the mouth of a mine. Nausea attacked and spread through him.

  “If you are intent on going to the islands, Wormling, I might be able to help. Some time ago a traveler happened through and stayed with us a few days. Like you he listened to our songs, laughed with us, and ate. He said that one day a Wormling might come this way.”

  Owen sat up. “What did he look like?”

  “Older. Graying hair. Piercing eyes.”

  “Did he carry a book?”

  Erol smiled. “He read from it just as you have. We wrote songs about it.”

  “What did he read?”

  Erol closed his eyes and leaned back, the morning sun illuminating his face.

  “Prepare a way. Make straight paths. For the day of relief and rescue is at hand. The Day of the Wormling.”

  That had to have been Mr. Page, who had given Owen the book in his own world. “How can you help me?”

  Erol signaled for Owen to follow, and they moved back down into the cave. The intoxicating smell of woodsmoke wafted throughout, and Owen saw Kimshi and several other women cooking meat and gigantic eggs—each large enough for a whole family. The tiny children ran through hallways and cavorted on makeshift chin bars suspended from the ceiling.

  Erol led Owen down several narrow passageways, through heavy wooden doors he had to unlock with keys strapped to his waist. “No one from the outside has ever been to our innermost chamber. Few even here are allowed. But you are the Wormling.”

  Erol pushed open the last heavy door and lit a torch on the wall. The small room was filled with expensive-looking clothing draped over the backs of ornate furniture. Pearl necklaces hung from hooks on the walls, along with scarves and coats. In the corner a metal box bore a small lock. Erol opened it and pulled out a small vial of liquid. “Jargid musk,” he said, popping the cork.

  Owen nearly passed out from the smell. It was as strong as a skunk but even worse. Owen coughed. “What’s a jargid?” he managed.

  “I’ve never seen one. The man who passed through gave this to me. He said that if a Wormling ever came through headed for the islands, we were to give him this. The smell will keep the Kerrol away.”

  “How will Watcher and I survive the smell?”

  “You’ll hold your nose,” Erol said, clapping Owen on the back. “Something the Kerrol apparently cannot do. The man said he left a skiff at the end of the gorge. Unless the current has destroyed it or the floods have moved it, it’ll still be there.”

  Hungry as he was and as mouthwatering as smells from the kitchens were, Owen collapsed into bed and did not awaken until late morning. Watcher was already up and rubbing her swollen stomach after a hearty breakfast. Kimshi had saved a plate for Owen, and as soon as he had eaten, he suggested to Watcher that they get their things together. “We might make it to the shore by nightfall.”

  Kimshi and the other women loaded them down with foodstuffs that wouldn’t spoil for months. The group gathered for a song about the book and also a farewell ditty, which made both Owen and Watcher brush away tears. Owen could hardly believe how close he felt to these tiny creatures, having been here less than one whole day.

  “You will always be part of our family,” Erol said, “always part of our music. And we stand ready to join you in any battle.”

  Owen rushed the embraces and good-byes to try to maintain his composure, and soon he and Watcher had descended to the ravine. New striations showed on the rock walls from the recent torrent, and the ground bore a new layer of soft silt.

  At the end of the narrow canyon they searched and searched for the skiff, and Owen decided it had long since been washed away.

  “I’m not giving up,” Watcher announced. “We can’t swim to the islands, after all.”

  “We’d better go back and ask Erol for help building a new craft,” Owen said.

  “That would take days. Let me keep looking.”

  Owen felt like a sloth, sitting in the sun while Watcher scampered about, and he nearly dozed again. By late afternoon he was feeling miserable and impatient, but Watcher had shamed him by doing all the work. He almost hoped she wouldn’t find the boat so he could justify having done nothing all day while she wasted time.

  As the sun began to descend beyond the peaks in the west, Watcher whooped from a tiny alcove.

  Owen rushed to her side as she kicked away branches to reveal a flat, broad platform anchored to the rocks. The skiff!

  It consisted simply of a dozen large saplings bound together over two support beams. A crude rudder was attached to the back for steering, and Owen fashioned an oar from wood he found. The whole thing was lighter than Owen expected, and they were able to hoist it onto their shoulders.

  A few hundred yards from the mouth of the ravine, they heard music and turned to see Erol and his band atop the ridge where he and Owen had talked all night. The little people played and sang them a joyous send-off.

  The sun had disappeared and the sky was darkening when Owen and Watcher finally lowered the skiff and fell, exhausted, in the black sand. It was warm and seemed to envelop them as they lay near the lapping water.

  Owen pulled the vial Erol had given him from his pack. “This is jargid musk. It—”

  “You don’t need to explain that to me,” Watcher said, turning up her nose. “Jargids are the most horrid creatures in the land.”

  He told her of the traveler and his belief that the musk would ward off the Kerrol.

  “It would sure ward me off,” Watcher said. “How in the world was he able to milk that thing?”

  They built a small fire on a black dune, propping up the skiff to shield them from the blowing sand. As darkness settled, Owen studied the three faint silhouettes on the horizon, the islands of Mirantha. “If Mordecai is there, how did he make it and how did he elude the Kerrol?”

  Watcher shivered and held up the vial. “I do not want to meet that beast in the water or on land.”

  “We’ll slather ourselves with the musk and wait for the tide,” Owen said.

  Watcher’s ears went rigid as something moved in the water. Then came a splash as if a whale had surfaced and dived back in. A hideous call echoed toward t
he caves of Erol.

  “We’d better wait till morning, when we can see,” Watcher said.

  “The oil will protect us,” Owen said, as if he knew it would work. In truth he could only hope.

  If you remember, at the end of the first installment of our story, Watcher told Owen that the picture of his mother looked like a woman Watcher knew from a distant village. Now, with the water lapping at the shore and Owen listening to Watcher’s even breathing as she slept, he dug through his pack for a morsel Kimshi had wrapped for him and came upon this picture once again.

  Ever since he could remember, Owen had been told that his mother had died giving him birth, and though he knew better, he could never shake the feeling that he was responsible for her death.

  He stared at the picture as he munched his breakfast, running a finger over her face. Could it be that the woman Watcher knew was a relative? No. From what he could tell, the only people who slipped from one world to another were Wormlings.

  Except for Mr. Page.

  And the Dragon.

  Watcher stirred. The fur above her eyes had a way of creeping down her forehead and covering her eyes as she slept. When she awoke, she stretched and scratched at her hair until it rested comfortably above again. It was cute, Owen thought, and he knew she had no idea he was watching her.

  She stood and saw the picture. “Thinking of home?”

  “I’m thinking we’ve come a long way from everything I’ve known, and I’ve no idea how much farther we might need to go.” He put the picture down and tossed her some dried fruit. “You won’t want to eat after we’ve applied the oil.”

  After she ate, Watcher helped pack the skiff and drag it closer to the water, watching for any sign of the Kerrol.

  “The woman I told you about,” Watcher said, “she lives in a different direction from here. Maybe after the initiation—”

  “It’s all right,” Owen said. “There’s probably no connection.”

  “But there might be. If we could find her . . .”

  “Let’s just get this oil on and get going,” he said, overcome with an anxiousness he couldn’t explain.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Wormling.”