The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Bad dream?” Mordecai whispered.

  Owen nodded.

  “It’s a good night to dream,” Mordecai said, “but nightmares are never pleasant.”

  The fire flickered on the man’s face, and Owen was suddenly overcome with pity. How sad to live alone in a cave on a deserted island guarded by a sea monster.

  Mordecai set down the poker and crossed his arms, sighing. “So, what was yours about?”

  Owen told him every detail, and Mordecai winced.

  “You don’t suppose,” Owen said, “it could be more than a dream, perhaps a premonition?”

  “Wormlings are rarely prophets. Leave that job to those it falls to.”

  “So it was just a bad dream, meaning nothing?”

  Mordecai drew up one of his massive feet and scratched it. “I believe our dreams often reflect our fears. Like anyone, I fear the Dragon. But my greater fear is that I have lost the will—or the courage—to get involved.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but Watcher and I got the feeling you had given up.”

  “Ah, I was just testing you, trying to determine whether you really had greatness in you or only a taste for adventure. Call me banished or exiled or whatever you wish, but the better part of me is just biding my time, waiting for my moment. You know what I mean?”

  Owen tried not to look surprised. In truth, Mordecai had been very convincing as a bitter old man with no interest in the future. “I think you are a good man. I don’t know what brought you here, but I believe you know right from wrong and will seize the opportunity when the time comes.”

  Mordecai cocked his head and seemed to study Owen. “I do not envy you, Wormling. You still bear the notion that one life can make a difference.”

  “If you don’t agree, why train me?”

  “For one, you and your sleeping friend there would not be dissuaded. Annoying as that is, it is also admirable. And Mr. Page carries a certain weight with me—”

  “Why?”

  “That is not your concern. Suffice it to say, I will honor his request, even though I fear it will be a waste of time and energy.”

  Owen sat with his thoughts, then said, “It is not even close to dawn, is it?”

  Mordecai laughed and shook his head. “There are many hours before the sun.”

  “Then why are you up?”

  Mordecai drew a long breath through his great nose and stared at the fire. “I suppose because I believed all this was behind me, that I had come far enough that it would not follow. After all this time my hopes and dreams became simple. I hope that the storms will stay away another month. I long for a bigger supply of jargid meat, a steady source of freshwater.”

  “And then I showed up.”

  “And then you showed up.”

  “You weren’t really exiled, were you, Mordecai? You chose to come here.”

  “There are different types of exiles. Yes, mine was self-imposed. I came here of my own will. And I will remain here.”

  “But why? What made you want to leave everyone? Don’t you have a family?”

  Mordecai turned away from Owen in silence and busied himself with the embers again, though the fire seemed to be doing well on its own. When he finally spoke, his voice became husky. “You should not concern yourself with my story. It is yours, Wormling, that must be told.”

  “But The Book of the King says every story is important.”

  “The happy ones, perhaps. The ones that end well and never disappoint.”

  “Some stories are sad because they are only half finished. Like reading a book only halfway through.”

  “Believe me, Wormling, my story is finished. It is a tragedy not fit for a young mind like yours. Nor for old minds, for that matter.”

  The fire had begun to warm Owen, and sleep pursued him. Yet, strangely, he realized his time reading The Book of the King had made some deep impression on him. He couldn’t imagine arguing with an adult in his world, let alone trying to advise one, but the wisdom of the book seemed to penetrate his soul and mind. He found himself eager to share his new insights.

  “But, sir, doesn’t it take tragedy to appreciate triumph? What would the mountain be without the valley? There’s a lesson in that for those who believe their lives are over or that they have no purpose left.”

  Though Mordecai appeared uncomfortable with all this, Owen believed he might be getting through.

  “Tell me this, Wormling: what about a person who has failed at the only important task ever given him, someone responsible for the deaths of ones he loves and the driving of others into the darkness?”

  “One failure does not ruin a life,” Owen said. “We all fall short of perfection.”

  “Some fall shorter than others.”

  “But we must not be defeated by one defeat. Think of the great inventor Thomas Edison and how many failures he endured before creating the lightbulb.”

  “The what? Who?”

  Owen flushed, remembering he was in an entirely different world. He could have used the example of writers unable to get their manuscripts accepted by publishers but who went on to become important in people’s lives, but that too would be foreign to Mordecai. “At what point do you stop trying—100 failures? More?”

  “Remember that question in the morning, Wormling. You will fail in your training, but you will also grow. I promise to make sure of that.” He squeezed Owen’s shoulder with his scarred hand. “Now back to bed with you. You have a long day ahead.”

  Why can’t they be clearer with their descriptions, RHM?” the Dragon rumbled, having incinerated yet another underling on the floor of his vast meeting room.

  As the poor creature’s ashes smoldered, the Dragon’s aide, RHM, bowed low, eyes to the floor. “Sire, because the Watcher stays so close to the Wormling, it is imperative that our people stay far enough away that they can’t be detected. This is why the details are, shall we say, sketchy.”

  “How can details be sketchy?” the Dragon growled. “They would then cease to be details, would they not?”

  RHM paused. Had you been in the room, you would have sworn that the being was amused with the Dragon, tempted to make fun of him. But he quickly thought better of it. “What of the boy in the Highlands? Have you found him yet?”

  “O great one, he continues to elude us. Without the beacon, it seems nearly impossible.”

  “You know how important it is that he be found,” the Dragon roared.

  “I do, and we are doing all we can. However, in the meantime, allow me to introduce an invisible you might find most suited to the job at hand.”

  He ushered in a tentacled being with snakelike eyes who seemed to bear no fear of death, despite having to step over the room-temperature remains of his predecessor.

  The Dragon’s brows—if that’s what we may call the bony protrusions over his languid, watery eyes—seemed to rise with interest at the very brashness of this creature.

  “Sire, this is Veildrom, the last of the Stalkers to have seen the target Wormling. Allow me to inform you that he—”

  “Enough, RHM,” the Dragon said, studying his own ever-lengthening fingernails. “Allow Veildrom to tell me what he will and quickly. I am so weary of vagueness.”

  “Your Majesty—” Veildrom bowed—“I bring you a secondhand report from the Badlands, where—”

  “Secondhand?” the Dragon spat. He inhaled as if about to spit fire.

  “Indulge him, sire,” RHM said, and when the Dragon whirled to glare at him, RHM added, “Please?”

  “We do not normally rely on demon flyers for reports, but under the circumstances—”

  The Dragon sighed and waved. “Yes, yes, out with it.”

  “They tell me they saw two beings in the narrow gorge that borders the territory of the mines. One was a Watcher and the other a human, a young man who very well could be the Wormling.”

  The Dragon rolled his eyes. “Could be?”

  Veildrom told him how the two had barely escaped the
flash flood.

  “Pity they didn’t perish.” He turned to RHM. “Are we doing too much with the water thing? The whole deluge from the Mountain Lake and all that? I hate to get into a rut.”

  “The flash flood was a natural disaster, sire.”

  “Yes, well, let’s just not become too predictable, hmm? We do have other tactics.”

  “The two were spotted a day later in the sea on a flotation device,” Veildrom said.

  “They did not approach the Badlands?” the Dragon said.

  “The Wormling appeared to gaze upon it during the wee hours of the morning, using some kind of looking device provided by the musicians of Erol.”

  The Dragon shook his head. “I thought we took care of that clan.”

  RHM stepped forward, hands clasped. “Mostly, sire. Those left have hidden themselves and no longer constitute a concern. They are, as it were, contained, having no influence—”

  “They apparently had some influence on the Wormling and this Watcher! Food, encouragement for the journey and the task ahead, no doubt. That’s all we need—aid to those miserable creatures and their measly lives.”

  “Would you like me to—?”

  The Dragon dismissed RHM’s notion with a wave and turned to Veildrom. “Anything else?”

  “The demon flyers watched until the two were attacked by the Kerrol just off the islands of Mirantha.”

  “Then our worries are over,” the Dragon said. “You should have started with that.”

  “Not quite, Your Majesty. They have since been spotted on the islands, though their skiff is in pieces on the rocks.”

  The Dragon’s crusty face contorted with confusion. “The Kerrol has one job! Is he past his prime? too old and feeble for the task? Have his teeth fallen out from poor hygiene?”

  “We’re as puzzled as you, sire,” Veildrom said. “For only recently the Kerrol sank a vessel north of the islands and consumed the crew and passengers.”

  “And yet he’s bested by a tiny Watcher and a young human?”

  “They’ve obviously been helped, sire,” Veildrom said.

  “Obviously. But by whom?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I don’t like that answer,” the Dragon said, a rattle deep in his throat.

  Veildrom approached the Dragon. “I visited the caves of Erol.”

  “Why not the islands of Mirantha?”

  “The Watcher would have sensed me.”

  “Don’t make me drag this from you. What did you learn in the caves?”

  “There was talk of a liquid the Wormling used to repel the Kerrol. Even more interesting was where they got it.”

  The Dragon’s eyes were slits now. “Will you get on with it!”

  “An older gentleman visited these outcasts some time ago and left a vial of liquid the leader was to provide a Wormling with should he ever come through.”

  “He has been there,” the Dragon said, his throat foaming. “But what would the Wormling be looking for on the island? Surely not what is hidden there.”

  “The musicians spoke of a man who could perform some sort of ceremony for the Wormling. The Wormling and the Watcher seemed desperate to find this man.”

  The Dragon huffed. “RHM, tell me the only other living person who can perform the initiation is the King!”

  “Unless someone close to him also knew,” RHM said.

  “No!” the Dragon wheezed. “He can’t still be alive.”

  “Who?” Veildrom said.

  “A pathetic character who swore allegiance to the King long ago. He was killed in a fire at the castle.”

  “Or so we thought,” RHM said. “But even if he survived, how would he have made it to the islands of—?”

  “Veildrom,” the Dragon said, “do you know anything else?”

  For the first time, Veildrom seemed shaken. “One other thing, sire. Erol’s clan still sings and plays. I said nothing to stop them, of course, because I didn’t want them to know who I worked for.”

  “They are harmless,” the Dragon snapped. “Contained, as RHM said.”

  “But their songs have taken a triumphal turn. No more laments about the past. They sing jubilant tunes regarding the Day of the Wormling. And they have written some that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that question the length of your reign, sire.”

  “Indeed?”

  “They seem confident, derisive about your abilities to contain the uprising the Wormling is sure to mount. They sing that you will be defeated by the good that will one day rule the hearts of men.”

  “Fools! They shall pay dearly. You have done well, Veildrom. Haste to the island and bring me news. If you fear the Watcher, kill her if you must.”

  When Veildrom was gone, RHM asked the Dragon if there was anything else.

  “I must figure the best way to make Erol and his lot truly suffer. Not fire but something more painful. Something that lasts. And I must slow this Wormling. If he reaches initiation before we stop him, there’s no telling what havoc he might wreak.”

  “Allow me to suggest something, Highness,” RHM whispered, leaning close, which was not easy, given the girth—and the stench—of the Dragon.

  When he had finished, a hideous smile curled the Dragon’s lips. “Excellent idea. I like it. Maximum effect on the maximum number, and we will be free of the threat of the Wormling without so much as lifting a finger.”

  The two laughed until the Dragon threw back his head and gave a triumphant roar, shooting fire from the castle top, illuminating his kingdom.

  Watcher snorted and rolled onto her stomach, her fur hanging in her eyes. She stretched and tried to get the fur smoothed in a polite manner, but there was always a tuft sticking up somewhere. She just hoped it gave her a certain style.

  She couldn’t remember sleeping so well since the Wormling had come to her world. Every night in the cave she felt more and more at home. She yawned, her tongue snaking out and curling, and arched her back, feeling her spine crackle.

  On the first day of Owen’s training she made sure she went along—to protect him from the behemoth if nothing else. But as the days wore on and Owen and Mordecai worked on new tests of strength, Watcher became bored and began exploring the island or watching for the Kerrol from treetops. She had even strung herself a hammock, made from leftover vines near Mordecai’s cave, at one edge of the place.

  Now the standard breakfast was on the table—fruit and the jargid jerky Mordecai had cured. At first it had been difficult to sleep with food hanging right over her, but she had gotten used to it. And she had actually developed a taste for the meat of an animal that made a skunk smell nice. Watcher ate the fruit quickly, then stuffed the dried meat in her mouth. She could make it last an hour or the whole day.

  On the table lay a hand-drawn map of what Mordecai had planned for Owen today. Owen had also drawn a picture on a leaf with a piece of blackened wood. The picture showed a big man with a boy by a mountain stream. Several landmarks were included.

  When Watcher ventured outside, the sun was glowing on the horizon, and clouds passed so close that she could almost touch them. Down on the beach the waves lapped peacefully, and a great, white-winged bird glided.

  The new grapevine hung from the tree near the cave, and like someone who had become used to walking on scaffolds hundreds of feet in the air, Watcher approached the ledge like it was no big deal. She wrapped her legs around the grapevine, the leaf tucked tightly under her chin, and hurtled over the edge until her hind legs cushioned her against the rock wall. Mordecai had tried to motivate Owen by saying, “Why can’t you do it like she does?”

  * * *

  After the Wormling had gotten used to climbing down the mountain, Mordecai ran him nearly to death all the way around the island. He began at sunup and ran the sandy shores barefoot until he returned to where he started. Mordecai gave him until sundown that first day, but Owen didn’t make it until well after dark. He was exhausted and hungry, his fe
et aching, but Mordecai made him get up the next morning at the same time and do it again.

  Pushing, always pushing, Mordecai taught Owen many things, not the least of which were endurance and patience. While Owen ran the entire island, Mordecai went across the middle and met him on the other side just to tell him how far behind he was and how many more times he would have to run this same course if he didn’t hurry. It was tempting for Owen to take a shortcut as well, but to his credit, he didn’t.

  When the Wormling made it to the end as the last rays of the sun disappeared, Mordecai showed him the obstacle course he had designed. The elaborate gauntlet was filled with dangerous traps. If at any point the Wormling made a wrong move, he could badly hurt himself.

  “The real Wormling will be able to do this,” Mordecai said.

  All Owen could think of was what a klutz he had always been at sports, even in gym class.

  The Wormling hated climbing trees the most—that is, until Mordecai discovered he couldn’t swim. He took Owen to the waterfall and shoved him into the deep pool beneath it until the Wormling was forced to learn to float and breathe and paddle. More than once, Mordecai had to shed his tunic and jump in to pull out the choking and coughing Wormling.

  * * *

  Watcher made it to the rapid stream down from the pool just as the Wormling whined, “How many more of these am I going to have to do to prove I’m who I say I am?”

  “As many as it takes to make me believe you believe you’re who you say you are,” Mordecai bellowed, laughing. “Now try again. And be careful of the oil on the fish’s body.”

  The Wormling stood in a rush of white water, struggling to keep his footing on the slippery rocks. He studied the surface, then lunged as something brown and red jumped up at him. “It hurts!”

  “Of course, if you don’t do it right. That’s why they call them shock fish. They send a charge into the water when they sense danger. Again.”

  As the next fish jumped, the Wormling tried to cradle it like a baby, but the effect was even worse. He danced on his toes like a barefoot man in a briar patch, yelping as the fish charged the water again and again.