The Sword of the Wormling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  He stole toward the tiny window and saw two cells divided by bars. Hay was bunched in the corners of both, a bucket in each for a bathroom, and in one an empty wooden plate looked like it had been thrown against the bars. Owen grabbed a torch from the wall and was able to make out a lump in the corner of one cell that looked like some barn animal curled in the hay.

  At the sound of footsteps behind him, Owen scrambled to throw the torch back into its holder and jumped out of sight.

  “I’ll bet she didn’t even make an entire meal,” a guard said. “There is no end to his appetite.”

  “Perhaps he had the Wormling too, for dessert.”

  They sat at the table. “How did you hear this—about the Watcher?”

  “A guard on the parapet says he saw a gator pounce and take her under. Good riddance.” He rose and thumped the double door with a foot, and a growl shook the earth. “I say the Wormling will be next.”

  Watcher’s lungs felt like they would burst. There was no light here in the jaws of the gator, just the creature’s awful breath.

  They descended as far as Watcher thought they could possibly go, and then they plunged farther. Her ears popped, and she felt like she was moving up toward the surface. Oh, let it be so! I must breathe!

  Suddenly the gator’s mouth opened, and they were on dry land. Gasping, Watcher stepped off his spongy tongue and into an underground cavern, where the water reflected a dim light above.

  “What is this place?” Watcher said, but the gator was gone, submerged.

  Watcher moved toward a tunnel but turned around at the sound of flapping wings. A creature eyed her with a tilted head, and suddenly Watcher feared this had been some unholy scheme—the gator had brought her here to be torn limb from limb and eaten. Well, she wouldn’t go quietly, not after all she had been through. She rose on her hind legs and looked menacingly at the being, ready to kick and thrash with all she had.

  The bug-eyed creature shrieked with laughter. “My dear, you have nothing to fear from me or my friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Rotag will return with another.”

  “Rotag is the gator?”

  “Harmless, isn’t he?” He wiped his nose. “Well, he certainly wouldn’t have left you down here to eat. We’ve heard about you. It was a long time ago, but my memory is sharp.” He sat on a rock and put his paws on his knees.

  “How could you have heard of me?”

  “Oh, you have friends in high places.” He laughed again. “I remember like it was yesterday.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Why, this is our hall of meeting, where the waterlings and undergroundlings get together to discuss important matters. And I daresay the matter before us today is exciting.”

  “You’re an undergroundling?”

  The animal’s mouth dropped. “I apologize. They’ll kick me off the assembly if they find out I’ve been so rude. Tusin is the name. Assemblyman of the undergroundlings.” He bowed to her. “Welcome, Watcher.”

  “Thank you. I think. So, what will happen—?”

  Just then the water cascaded from below, and Rotag slid to a stop. A beady-eyed flyer with the wingspan of an eagle swooped into the cave and alighted on the rock above Tusin.

  “Allow me to introduce Batwing, and you already know Rotag.” Tusin stood. “Meeting of the assembly convenes on this day of the King, all members present, the honorable Rotag presiding.”

  Rotag rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I have summoned this groundling to our meeting because she says a Wormling is in our midst.”

  Batwing flapped and Tusin clapped. Watcher felt such energy in the room that she believed the very rocks would have cried out if they hadn’t responded. The noise echoed, and other voices picked up on the word Wormling.

  “I can see your bewilderment,” Rotag said. “The King, before he set out on the search for his Son, allowed certain of us to know his plan. He left us with responsibilities—”

  “Which we have taken seriously,” Tusin said.

  Rotag continued. “The King said that one day the Wormling and a helper would come to the Lowlands in search of his Son. And here you are.”

  Everyone seems to know more about us than we know about ourselves.

  “The King read to me from a book—”

  “The Book of the King?” Watcher said.

  “Exactly! How did you know?”

  “It was given to the Wormling in his world, but it has been stolen. We think it might be in the castle.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I sense things. It’s my job.”

  Rotag squinted. “Batwing? Could you . . . ?”

  “At once,” Batwing screeched, flying off.

  “I’m curious,” Watcher said. “Why did the King choose you? How did you become part of this assembly?”

  Tusin said, “I could say it was because of our intellects or that we are the best specimens of our species. . . .”

  “But he would be lying,” Rotag said.

  “The truth is,” Tusin continued, “we were available. He called us to his service, and we responded gladly. How could we not?”

  “How did he call you?”

  “Like this.” Tusin waved. “‘Come here; I have something for you to do.’ As simple as that. He talked of the deep things in his heart: How he grieved over what had become of the kingdom. How he longed for it to be restored, and how it would be when his Son returned. Our hearts burned with his every word. They were like red-hot pokers, stoking a fire we didn’t even know existed.”

  Rotag said, “He made us feel as important as his own Son. He said each of us has a story, and the smaller stories fit into the larger one. It was all very mysterious at the time, but now I can see how he was right. He gave us this job—to find the Wormling, to protect him, and to help him find the King’s Son.”

  “Is the Son here, in the castle?” Watcher said.

  “Someone is being held there. I have heard the crying and moaning.”

  “The Wormling is in the castle now,” Watcher said. “He believes the book and the Son are both inside.”

  Rotag and Tusin looked away.

  “What is it?” Watcher said. “What’s wrong?”

  Before either could answer, Batwing returned, short of breath, fangs jutting. He grabbed hold of a growth on the ceiling, hung upside down, and addressed the group. “I saw The Book of the King in the Dragon’s highest chamber. It is guarded by four demon vipers—the Golden Guard from the east, west, north, and south. It will be impossible to get past them.”

  “Not for the Wormling,” Watcher said. “I saw him battle the beasts in—”

  “Yes, yes, and lop off the feet of some scythe flyers. We have heard. Well, these are quite different. They shoot venom at their enemies. Your Wormling wouldn’t be able to even get his sword close to them before he would be cut down.”

  “You don’t know the Wormling,” Watcher said.

  “I know these vipers, and they will not let the book out of their sight.”

  “Then we must find a way to make them. Or kill the Dragon.”

  Batwing closed his eyes and swung back and forth from his perch. Tusin stared at the stone floor.

  Rotag spoke. “If this Wormling has read the book, he knows that only the Son can bring the worlds together.”

  “He has become fearless and cunning,” Watcher said. “I believe he will find the Son and return with the book.”

  “He will need help,” Tusin said.

  “The King said we are to help,” Batwing squeaked.

  Rotag sighed and gazed at Watcher. “New friend, we will do all we can.”

  Owen sat stunned at the news of Watcher’s death. Deep in the night, fears are the worst and grief can envelop even the strongest heart. Owen could only imagine Watcher’s fear and desperation as she was devoured. And it was his fault. She had wanted to come with him, but he had made her stay.

  Owen had gotten off to a bad start with he
r when first he arrived in the Lowlands, but he and Watcher had become friends, bonding in their love for the King. And there had been something else between them, something more than just friendship. Certainly not romance, for they were not even the same species, but somehow they cared deeply for each other no matter how wrong either could be. Owen regretted the times he had had the chance to encourage or compliment Watcher but had let the opportunity slip.

  Now how could he press on with the demon flyers of the enemy arrayed against him, without the one being in this world who knew the most about him and cared the most for him? Bardig had given his life; Watcher had hers taken due to carelessness—Owen’s own.

  “Psst.”

  Owen peeked out from behind the crates to see a face at the tiny window of the cell.

  “Are you here to help?”

  “That depends on who you are,” Owen said.

  “The guards are away! Get the key from the wall behind the desk.”

  Owen retrieved it but hesitated before the door.

  “Hurry!” the man said, his voice making Owen guess he was in his twenties at most.

  Owen fumbled with the key, ears pricked for any sound of guards and wondering if he might be freeing someone who deserved to be imprisoned.

  Just as the lock clicked, footsteps approached. The prisoner opened the door and pulled Owen inside, the lock latching.

  “Thanks a lot,” Owen said. “Now we’re both—”

  “Shh!” The man pulled some hay back. “Lie down and I’ll cover you.”

  “What’s all the racket?” a guard roared.

  “I’m hungry!” the prisoner said.

  “Shut up or you won’t eat for a week!”

  The guard sat at the table and put his feet up, mumbling, “Kudzik wandered off with the key again. Idiot.” Soon he was dozing.

  Owen crawled out from under the smelly hay, brushing it from his hair and clothes.

  “Who are you?” the prisoner whispered.

  Owen looked into the man’s face. Could this be the King’s Son? He had imagined the Son tall, dark, strong as an ox, with a face chiseled from stone and yet with eyes that could look right through you. He assumed the Son would act in a regal manner like his mother, the Queen, the perfect blend of strength and compassion, of love and power. But the young man in front of him seemed less than regal. He had longish hair cut square around his face. His eyes stuck out so he looked more like an owl than royalty. He was tall and thin, not as strong as Owen had thought, but still Owen’s heart beat wildly. Could this be the one?

  “Does it matter?” Owen said. “Maybe I’m a Wormling. What would you say to that?”

  The prisoner rolled his eyes and sat. “My father used to tell of a Wormling. A dream. A fantasy. He uses the power of some book to bore through rock. Ever hear that story?”

  Owen studied the man. “Maybe. Your father. Is he the King?”

  “What if he is? If you can be a Wormling, I can be a prince.”

  Owen smiled and pumped his fist. “You’re him! The one I’ve been searching for! You don’t know how long I’ve been looking or how far I’ve come. Now the prophecies can be ful—”

  “Quiet,” the prisoner said. “I’d rather stay alive than fulfill some prophecies you made up.”

  “I didn’t make them up. I read them in the book.” Owen looked around. A stone wall at the back. Dirt floor. Three walls made of timbers. He pulled Mucker from his tunic and noticed the worm’s teeth were shattered from chomping in the mine. “Now we have to get out of here and find the book.”

  The prisoner stood. “You are obviously committed to this little quest. Fine, be my guest. But I’m getting as far away from here as possible. You can stay and face whatever it was that flew in an hour ago.”

  “That was the Dragon,” Owen said. “He wants to destroy everything your father created.”

  “He can have it. Destroy away. I’ll be on the other side of the kingdom. I’m not risking my life for fairy tales.”

  “They’re not just stories. The Book of the King is a manual to live by, encouragement to live for others and to help you when—”

  “I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling! I just want out of here.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard your name. What do I call you?”

  “I’m Qwamay, but they’ll have both our heads if you don’t be quiet.”

  “Prince Qwamay,” Owen whispered. “You will unite the two worlds.”

  Qwamay glanced at the guard’s station, then paced. He stopped and knelt. “Do you have help? Are you working with anyone?”

  Owen’s face fell. “There was one with me but no longer.”

  “So you’re it? my rescue party?”

  “Yes, but I have reason to believe The Book of the King is here, and with it—”

  The prisoner cursed. “Stop talking about that book! Just get me out of here.”

  “The book says each of us is in a prison, each needs rescue, and we can’t do it on our own. We need someone from the outside—”

  “Yes, a Wormling, is that it? Do you see yourself as a savior? You’re just a boy. And deluded.”

  “Listen, Prince Qwamay, your father had the book written. It was delivered to me along with the Mucker.” Owen showed him the worm.

  Qwamay scowled. “Terrific. That toothless bug is going to get us out of here?”

  Owen unsheathed the Sword of the Wormling. “And this.”

  Qwamay took it and studied the intricate carving in the handle. “Who gave you this?”

  “A man who used to work here. You would have been too young to remember him. Mordecai?”

  Qwamay sliced his finger on the edge of the blade and quickly stuck it in his mouth, handing the sword back. “You’re right. Never heard of him.”

  Watcher followed Tusin through the cave, over slick rocks and jagged ledges. Her keen eyesight helped when they neared the surface, but most of the climbing had been in pitch darkness, relying on her sense of touch. It was tough, slow going, but anything was better than holding her breath in the jaws of a gator, no matter how good his intentions.

  Rotag had taken the underwater route, and they met him and Batwing on the shore behind a grove of acacia trees. They were an unlikely quartet planning to storm the castle, but Watcher remembered a story the Wormling had read to her from The Book of the King.

  “Three spies were sent into an enemy encampment by the captain of the guard,” she began. “The vicious and deadly force slept soundly, too drunk on the spoils of war to notice the intruders. Once inside, they moved steadily through the camp, counting the fighters and all their weapons. They counted 7,000 soldiers. Their own force was less than half that.

  “They hurried back to report to their captain. He chose 15 men (the three spies included) and had them stand above the camp on a hillside. The other troops protested, but the captain of the guard said the King wanted to teach them that it is not by might nor power nor weapons of warfare that an army is victorious but by the strength of the one who sends them.”

  Batwing, Tusin, and Rotag seemed to hang on every word.

  “What happened?” Tusin said, his voice cracking.

  “The 15 encircled the camp of 7,000 in the dead of night. At a signal from their captain, they blew a note on their rams’ horns. The enemies awoke in confusion. Their horses bolted from their pens, and the warriors, believing they were under attack, grabbed their swords and spears and lunged at anything and everything around them. All 7,000 were slain by their own hands.

  “So the smaller army learned that victory came not from strength in numbers but in trusting the word of the captain and following his orders.”

  “I take that as a word from the King himself,” Batwing said. “That sounded like a story he would have told.”

  A single glowing light shone from a room at the top of the castle. It beckoned Watcher like a beacon, perhaps showing the way to The Book of the King. But where was the Wormling?

  “I
can’t blow a ram’s horn,” Rotag said.

  “I can screech,” Batwing said.

  Watcher laughed. “Let’s remain quiet and search for the Wormling. Remember, the one who has sent us is greater than the one inside.”

  “But the one inside breathes fire,” Batwing said. “And has demon vipers.”

  The two heavily armed guards at the front of the castle had skin thick enough to withstand an arrow. They were clumsy, oafish beings, but they looked like stone sentries now, slumbering at their posts with flies hovering.

  Watcher and Tusin rode on the back of the smooth and silently gliding Rotag across the water toward the castle. When they reached land, Rotag pitched his riders off and advanced on the guards.

  At that very moment, Batwing swooped out of the sky, diving for the guards, and sped past their noses. The two guards jumped, their spears clattering to the ground. That’s when they noticed the gator.

  “Look at the size of that monster,” the first said, grabbing his spear and hurling it. It glanced off Rotag’s scaly back and rattled along the rocks into the water. The other guard bent to pick up his spear, but the gator lunged at him with mouth wide.

  The black-winged creature flitted about their heads, making them flail. Of course, this whole operation was designed to move the guards just far enough from the entrance so Watcher and Tusin could enter unseen. As they slipped in and disappeared around a corner, scythe flyers converged on the scene, sending Batwing racing into the night as Rotag plunged into the water.

  “Waterlings have never come that close before, have they?” one guard said.

  “Maybe he was hungry,” said the other.

  “Or maybe he smelled Wormling. But the master will have all of him.”

  Owen recited passages from The Book of the King, challenging Prince Qwamay to help defeat the Dragon and unite the kingdoms, but Qwamay would not listen. He said it would be impossible to escape after the sun rose, so Owen reached through the window and all the way to the lock. He silently inserted the key, but when he turned it far enough to release the lock, it clicked like a bomb. The guard’s chair slipped from under him, and he crashed to the floor.