“Mordecai, what is this indentation at the top of the blade?”
“The bloodline.” He drove his dagger into a melon and tossed it to Owen. “Pull it out,” Mordecai said.
Owen pulled, but he had to put the melon on the floor between his feet to get the dagger out.
“You want to be able to pull your sword out of your enemy and continue, not have to put your foot on him like a melon.” Mordecai took the sword from Owen and had him toss the melon into the air. “The bloodline enables you to plunge the blade in,” he said, catching the melon on the end of the sword. “Then you simply dip the blade, like this, and pull it out, resuming the battle.”
Mordecai tossed the sword to Owen, who easily caught it by the hilt. Mordecai swung his long stick at his young friend. “Fight.”
When Owen first began swordplay, he had flailed and jerked, trying to avoid Mordecai’s stick. His battle was defensive, sometimes even running around the room. But the more he practiced and imitated Mordecai, the more he found that by simply turning his wrist or moving one foot, he could gain the upper hand.
Mordecai also threw things at him, including scalding water, and Owen learned to deflect or elude it. Within two weeks he was able to swing the sword as quickly as Mordecai swung his much-lighter stick.
When Owen finally knocked the stick from Mordecai’s hand and brought the tip of the sword inches from the man’s neck, he believed he was ready.
“Well done, Wormling. But you have more to learn about your weapon. Besides its ability to create a mist covering when it touches water, it can, with a word of encouragement, fly to your hand from quite a distance. Imagine the advantage of this in a crisis.”
Owen tried calling the sword but missed when it flew near him. Once it knocked him down. Another time he missed the hilt and nearly grabbed the blade.
“The sword also has healing qualities,” Mordecai said. “The ultimate goal of a weapon is peace. Good triumphing over evil. Destruction is not your main goal but health and wholeness. Those who fight you oppose those ideals.” Mordecai wielded his stick again. “Fight.”
Owen warded off numerous jousts, and when he saw an opening, he drove the sword down at an angle. Instead of blocking it, Mordecai stepped into the blade and it sliced through his sleeve to his arm.
“I’m sorry!” Owen said.
“No, it’s all right,” the man said, wincing, blood flowing. “Now put the side of the blade here.”
Owen did, and when he took the sword away, not so much as a scratch or a drop of blood remained on Mordecai’s arm.
“What? How?” Owen said.
“Ask the one who forged it,” Mordecai said.
Mordecai led Owen and Watcher to a clearing he had prepared at the end of the island. He simmered several jargid over a fire, along with shock fish and skolers.
As twilight approached, and with waves crashing along the shoreline, Owen knelt in the sand by a swaying palmetto, where Mordecai touched both his shoulders with the sword, conferring on him the full rights and responsibilities of a Wormling in the Lowlands.
“And, Watcher, I charge you to act and speak in a manner worthy of a Wormling’s aide. The trust he has put in you is sacred. May you live up to his calling.”
Mordecai stood on a rock and lifted his voice above the night sounds. He read the scroll in lilting tones in its original language, which sounded as if it had come from heaven itself.
After each sentence, he translated. “The Wormling is called as protector and warrior on behalf of the King. It is his sacred duty to follow the King’s wishes and do as he bids. This trust is bestowed upon you not because you have been deemed worthy, but because you have been chosen.”
The word chosen rang through Owen’s body like a low note on some magical instrument. All his life he had felt like an outcast, a person on the fringe, rarely included in games, anything but part of the “in” crowd. But here, in a quiet spot on an island in another world, he not only felt part of the plan but was also welcomed. Chosen. Important. Years of reading and soaking up the stories of great writers had helped prepare him for this moment.
“Look not to the left or right from the narrow path prepared for you. Study the words of the King to show yourself approved, a Wormling ready to battle, to heal, to find, to rescue. May your efforts cause the King’s enemies to stumble and fall, while his friends become your friends.”
As Mordecai read, his voice broke. “And remember that wherever your journey leads, there will be one who never takes his eye from you, never leaves you alone, and will always be with you.”
Mordecai bade Owen to rise, and when he did he felt different. He had wondered why the initiation had to take place at all, but now, after the training and the commission, he knew.
Mordecai instructed him to say whatever came to his mind, and something wonderful happened. In class after class Owen had despaired of even answering a question from the teacher, let alone addressing the class. His hands shook, his face burned, and his back was soaked with perspiration.
But now Owen placed the sword in its scabbard, a new dark brown tunic wrapped around his shoulders, sporting a hood. Gazing at the golden horizon and his two friends, he said, “There is no place in this world or the other I would rather be than right here, right now. And there is no destination I’d want to reach than where my King—though I have never met him—sends me.
“You have taught me much, Mordecai. You have been faithful and true, and I can only hope that what you have taught has freed you from much of your past.
“And to you, Watcher, my friend and companion, I pray that one day you and I will be greeted by the King himself and that our friendship will never wane—that together we will find the Son, the prophecy will be fulfilled, and we will see the day of deliverance for both worlds.
“Where two or three follow the King, there the spirit of the King dwells richly.”
“Long live the King,” Mordecai said.
“Long may he reign,” Owen said, reaching for the bearded man’s hand.
Watcher lifted her hoof atop the two hands and seemed to search for something to say. She finally settled on, “Let’s eat.”
The three ate their fill, with their bare feet (and hooves) buried in the sand as the moon rose. Watcher soon fell asleep, but Owen was so excited he wondered if he would ever sleep again.
“Where will we go first?” Owen said. “You must have an idea.”
Mordecai looked sad. “I will not be accompanying you, Wormling.”
Owen sat up so quickly that he made Watcher stir. “We’re much stronger together, Mordecai. You must come.”
“Walk with me.”
They moved up the beach, just out of reach of the tides. “Can’t I command you to come? Now that I’m a fully commissioned Wormling?”
“You could, but you won’t. You were chosen because this Mr. Page you speak of saw in you a heart of compassion. You won’t force me.”
“But we have the same goal, the same mind, the same heart.”
“I have scars, Wormling.”
“I no longer see them. I don’t even think about them. You are my friend and my mentor.”
“But the scars remain and not just the physical ones.”
Owen put a hand on Mordecai’s shoulder. “If you won’t join us, at least tell me what happened. I need to understand.”
Mordecai threw a stone into the surf. “I suppose I owe you that.”
They walked on until Mordecai finally turned and faced the water, which reflected the night sky. “My parents were killed by the Dragon, leaving me a halfling passed from family to family in the village until one day the King and his wife rode through in a carriage. I had been left alone that day and sat watching the procession. The King inquired whose child I was, and someone told him the story. The King and his wife had compassion on me and agreed to take me in—to work at the castle. I worked in the stables, but the good lady insisted I be taught to read and write.”
“The
Queen herself?”
Mordecai nodded. “I learned from the best teachers in the land, and as I grew, the King took me under his wing as one of his own. I still remember walking the fields in the early morning dew, hunting fowl or rabbits, and coming across a den of jargid. He knew how much I loved the meat and would let me eat as much as I wanted from his table.
“When I was old enough, he sent me away to train as a warrior. And then an officer. And finally, he trained me himself, showing me some of what I have shown you. I was named captain of the guard, highest officer in the castle, and given the task—” Mordecai picked up another stone and flung it farther in the water. He paced in the sand, running a rough hand through his unruly hair.
“What task?” Owen said.
“Of protecting his wife and children first. I was to protect him too, though he did not need my help; he was so capable a warrior. But he would go on trips—to attend councils or to make treaties. It was while he was away on one of those trips that the castle was attacked. I wish we had had your Watcher. Quickly and without mercy, a fire erupted in the royal chamber.
“I did not hear the cries of the Queen and her children, because I had fallen asleep from too much wine. When I finally awoke and staggered into the room, flames had engulfed the netting over the crib and the boy was crying. I threw myself into the fire, grabbing the boy. But no sooner had I done this than I was hit from behind by a blast of fire. I threw up this hand to protect me, while cradling the Son. I awoke in the infirmary, bandaged. The Queen had survived the attack, but both the boy and the girl were gone. Stolen.”
“Was the Son burned like you?”
Mordecai shook his head. “I don’t know. All I remember is his face. Cherubic, like an angel’s. Soft eyes that bored a hole through you, just like his father’s.”
“You did all you could, Mordecai.”
“I should have been alert enough to prevent the attack. If I hadn’t let them down, the King would be with his children, and the Queen would still be in her castle.”
“What happened to her?”
Mordecai bowed his head. “I left in the night as soon as I could walk. As I wandered, I heard rumors that the King and Queen had searched for their children. Eventually the castle was restored, and the King sent out spies to continue looking for them.”
“Did you ever return?”
“I could never show my face to him again. He had put his trust in me, giving me full access to all he had—his lands, his hunting grounds, a home for my family . . .”
“You have a family?”
“Had,” Mordecai said, raising a hand, and Owen knew this was not a safe topic. “All he asked was that I protect his family.” He paused. “I would love to see what the boy looks like now.”
“One day you will, if we can be sure the Son is still alive.”
Mordecai sighed. “I feel it to the very marrow of my bones that he is. If he is not, what hope have we?”
“I also feel something deep inside, Mordecai.” Owen unsheathed his sword and Mordecai stood back. “I feel that if the King were here right now, he would forgive you. He would tell you that he loves you.” Owen laid the blade against Mordecai’s heart. “He would bid you to come back and fight with him. Search with him. To let him heal the wounds you have suffered so long.”
Mordecai looked at the ground. “The sword’s power to heal does not extend to wounds of the heart.”
“Come with us, Mordecai. Fight with us.”
Mordecai hung his head and walked down the beach.
Owen waited until the moon reached its zenith, and Watcher joined him, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
With Mucker tucked safely inside the initiation scroll, Watcher and Owen prepared for their journey off the island. One of Owen’s training exercises had been to cut down a huge tree with a small ax. That came in handy, and Owen quickly fashioned a canoe from the fallen tree.
After a long, tight, tearful embrace of Mordecai, Owen and Watcher rubbed on jargid oil and put skins of the putrid animal in their new craft to ward off the Kerrol, then launched on the early morning tides from the south side of the island. Twice the beast slithered to the surface through the mists, and Owen wished it would get close enough for him to test his sword. But as if he had long since learned his lesson, both times the Kerrol plunged back into the depths with a kerthunk.
As Owen rowed he thought of Mordecai, and the more he thought, the sadder he became. The Book of the King contained many passages on forgiveness and restoration and said it was the glory of a King to overlook a mistake. Owen was sure the King still loved Mordecai and didn’t hold his offense against him. Clearly Mordecai had never forgiven himself. Owen guessed it would take a visit from the King himself to free the man from his regrettable past.
Owen was soon glad to be back on the mainland, not surrounded by water, the canoe hidden in sea grass. His sense of mission—to find the King’s Son so he could unite the two worlds and free the people—drove him.
His destination was the Son’s prison, wherever he was held. Mordecai had offered several guesses as to where he might be, leaving Owen to dream restlessly every night, often awakening sweating and out of breath. Always it was the same: A young man in tattered, royal robes sat in the dungeon of some isolated stone prison, his hair and fingernails growing to enormous lengths. Watchmen on the walls bore hideous, scaly, horned faces. Torches lit every entrance. In his dream Owen got as far as the barred window that allowed him to see the Son just before he was discovered. He raced from the fortress, pursued on foot, on horseback, and in the air.
Owen was now in search of the prison—or one similar to it—of his dreams. As he and Watcher reached rocky soil, several musicians of Erol leaped from trees and high rocks, alighting all around them.
Owen grinned. “Friends!”
But it quickly became apparent that the musicians were not smiling. Was it possible they didn’t recognize him? thought he was a trespasser? They surrounded and subdued Owen and Watcher before he even thought of defending himself. Two lugged his heavy sword to a cliff and pitched it down a ravine, where he heard it clanging on its way.
Soon Erol himself emerged.
“Why do you look at me that way, old friend?” Owen said.
The man’s eyes were not filled with hatred but with tears. He pulled a dagger from his tunic, his fist clenched around it so tight that his knuckles were white. “I’m sorry, Wormling,” he said, clearly unable to meet Owen’s gaze, “but I must kill you.”
Erol leaned close and whispered, “I must cut out your heart and give it to the Dragon. He has invaded. I have one chance to restore what I have known and loved all these years.”
“What happened?” Owen said.
“The demon flyers attacked our young ones picnicking in the glen. They took a dozen and carried them toward the Badlands. They have announced that your heart is the ransom.”
“But I can help you get them back. Killing me will only mean you lose them forever.”
Erol shook his head. “Their leader, a most hideous creature, said our children would die unless we did as he commanded. We are to kill the Wormling and present his heart to the Dragon. He held out The Book of the King and said it was written that you would die by our hands—”
“He lied!” Watcher screamed, her voice echoing through the valley.
Owen nodded. “The truth is not in him,” he said quietly. “The enemy seeks to make us fight those we love rather than our true enemies. If he divides us—”
“I cannot risk losing my children!” Erol said, moaning as he raised the dagger. “We must place your heart high upon the rock where he can see it.”
Owen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and raised his voice. “Sword!”
From the ravine came a clang and a whirring.
Owen spread his legs and shook off the musicians, grabbing the sword from the air. “The fate of your children and the kingdom depends on me.”
Erol looked taken aback by both Owe
n’s strength and his voice. The little man quickly held the dagger to Watcher’s throat. “Consent or your friend dies.”
Watcher’s eyes darted and Owen heard her whimper.
“I promise on my life I will get your children back,” Owen said. “But you must listen to me, not this being from the Dragon. He means only to devour you and your kind.”
“Our women weep,” Erol said. His voice was pitiful and weak.
“I will turn their mourning to dancing and their cries to shouts of joy. But you must—”
Before Owen could finish, Watcher tried to escape and Erol’s blade sliced her foreleg, blood pouring on the ground. “Wormling,” she gasped.
Owen stepped forward with the sword.
“Wait!” Erol said. “Do not end her life! This wound is not fatal.”
“Stand back!” Owen commanded.
Watcher wobbled, clearly weakening.
Owen pressed the sword to her wound, and immediately the cut closed, completely healed.
Erol and the others fell back.
“My power is not my own,” Owen said. “It comes from the King.”
“Our fate is in your hands, Wormling,” Erol said. “But how will you save the children? The Badlands are forbidden territory.”
“The Book of the King says, ‘Whatever you put your hand to do, do it well and do it with all your heart.’ The King will prepare the way. And he will show us the way to his Son as well.”
“We dare not doubt you, Wormling,” Erol said. “Forgive me!”
“You are forgiven. I understand.”
“Now, how can we help? Shall you take our most trained?”
Owen looked at the sky. He had been chosen, though weak and afraid. He had been entrusted with The Book of the King, though just a boy. “Was your son taken?”
“No,” Erol said. “Why?”
“I am here,” Starbuck called, bounding out from behind a rock.
Owen caught Erol’s eyes with his, eyebrows raised.
“Him?” Erol said.
The Sword of the Wormling Page 11