The Book of the King

by Chris Fabry

  * * *

  Owen feared drowning, was petrified of the Slimesees, and was even scared of how scared he was. As Owen’s head rose out of the vortex, gasping and struggling to stay afloat, he wrestled with his backpack, air bubbles escaping as he unzipped it and reached inside for the plastic bag.

  The Slimesees was staring, seemed to be calculating, preparing, waiting for just the right moment to spring and devour Owen. Through the thrashing water the boy noticed muscles tightening against green scales and the narrowing of those serpentine eyes. When the Slimesees sprang and shot like an arrow toward Owen, teeth bared, a feral missile intent upon tearing him limb from limb, Owen held The Book of the King out before him.

  The Slimesees, stretched to full length, mouth open, looked horrified. His eyes widened, his tiny ears flew back, and he shrieked.

  Owen recalled words from The Book of the King and spoke them boldly in a watery whisper: “‘The King commands you.’”

  The Slimesees stopped in midair, hung there for a second like a cartoon character, and sank into the abyss. Flailing, he plunged to the bottom, the resounding splash creating a reverse cyclone that shot high into the sky.

  Owen was caught up in this current of water, wind, and light and held the book as tightly as he could as he surged upward with the force of a billion carnival rides. The cyclone reversed from the inside out and blasted Owen into the air like a cannonball.

  Suddenly something rose before him, and Owen braced for impact. But as if he were riding a flume, he slid down what was left of the funnel and was deposited harmlessly in the sand.

  The book was under his arm, his backpack still snug around his shoulders. Owen threw sand in the air and scooped up more, then danced around the tiny beach, laughing from the belly. He had survived the Slimesees and the water and the cyclone, all because of a few words from the book.

  Mr. Page had spoken of the power of the book and its words, but Owen had never dreamed of anything like this. He sat in the sand and began to read, one eye on the water. The cave ceiling had returned and it was dark again, but he was grateful for a little light.

  Mucker peeked out from between the pages and wiped his head as if brushing sweat from his brow. Owen placed him in the sand and watched the tiny creature inch along, making a track to the stone wall. Owen followed and sat with his back to the wall. A few palms made him feel sheltered, although he worried the Slimesees might return or send a friend or brother for revenge.

  Owen felt drawn to a section of the book titled “Making the Journey.”

  Do not worry about what lies behind you, for yesterday is gone. Do not be concerned about tomorrow, for your path is prepared. Concern yourself with today and choose what is good. Work with a whole heart.

  Mucker crawled up Owen’s leg and onto his hand. Finally he moved to the edge of the book and turned back several pages with his head. Owen was fascinated that Mucker knew what he was doing, almost as if he had written these words.

  Mucker crawled to the middle of a page, and Owen read:

  Prepare yourself for the journey with rest. Sleep and dream great dreams, for it will be difficult to get to the other side.

  Owen yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes. The ordeal in the water had left him exhilarated, but now every muscle and bone went limp. He used his backpack for a pillow, stretching out in the sand.

  Owen dreamed he was back at Tattered Treasures, his father behind the counter, head down. Owen felt a deep desire to hug him, but as he moved toward the man, he realized that this was not his father at all but someone he had never seen. The face was gnarled and angular, a sharp nose jutting, shaggy eyebrows dancing, and piercing red eyes that seemed to belong to some reptile rather than to a man.

  Owen ran upstairs, but the man followed, changing form as he ascended. Owen closed and locked his bedroom door, ran to the window, and opened it, then changed his mind and dived into the closet. He buried himself deep in the back, peeking out through the hanging clothes, watching as his bedroom door appeared to bubble. The glass knob melted. Then the door was consumed by fire and vanished.

  His room burst into flames, shattered and blackened embers floating about. Some fell on his bed and ignited the blankets and pillow. A ghastly smell filled the room, not just of smoke and fire but acrid and bitter, like death itself.

  Owen stood still, trying to breathe, when the man entered and surveyed the area. He sneered at Owen’s book collection, then picked up something from Owen’s desk.

  When he spotted the open window, the man took a deep breath and his back began to change. His clothing ripped open, revealing cracked skin, scales. The transformation was hideous, but Owen could not turn his eyes away. A huge tail appeared with a V-shaped appendage at the end. Hands and arms grew scales and muscles rippled. The man’s shiny head grew rigid scales, and a snout extended. Owen was certain the being would be able to easily sniff him out now.

  When the beast turned, Owen saw the same terrible red eyes, now in the body of a great dragon. As the being grew, the room could not contain it, and with a snort and a thrust of its horned head, it forced its way out the window, tearing out much of that wall.

  Owen hurried to his desk where the frame holding the picture of his mother lay cracked, the picture torn. His mother’s head was gone, and rage filled him. The Dragon had stolen his only connection with his mother. He whirled to face a gigantic hole in the wall.

  Red eyes stared back. And then the great mouth opened, and searing heat and flames shot at him.

  Owen awoke in a sweat, hands full of sand. He found the book and cradled it to his chest. There was no sign of the Slimesees, only his own footprints—and Mucker’s tiny trail.

  Mucker!

  Where could he be? Eaten by some bird or bat?

  Owen turned at the sound of scratching and found Mucker munching his way through the round dragon portrait etched into the stone wall. How could a worm eat through rock? His speed was amazing. Mucker would pull back his lips, bare his sharp teeth, and tear away. He had eaten about half an inch of the dragon’s body and already he seemed bigger, his body thicker and more round. How could that have happened so quickly?

  Seeing Mucker eat made Owen hungry too. He dug food from his backpack and devoured it in a few bites. Then he sat back against the wall again to read. Mucker crawled up his arm and perched on his shoulder for a moment, then moved back to the wall.

  The power of words will be evident as your journey begins. To breach the portal you will need patience, a steady eye, and consistent reading, for with each word you will proceed closer to your goal. Once you begin, there is no turning back, for the Mucker can lead in only one direction. Keep reading, despite any fatigue.

  Owen was not simply heading to another realm. Everything in his life had led to this moment. In one way, he had been trained for such a trip, and in another, his education was just beginning.

  The next time Owen looked up from the book, he found a huge pile of gravel. Mucker’s tail squirmed above him. The little thing had created a hole three feet wide.

  By now nothing Mucker accomplished could surprise Owen. So he continued reading, totally engrossed. Parts of the book he could not understand, and he had to read slowly and often read the same paragraph several times. Some things, he knew, he would not understand until he was in the middle of doing them.

  An hour later he became aware that the noise behind him had ceased, and he turned to see what Mucker was up to. Owen yelped when he faced an enormous head and teeth that could tear him to pieces. But it was only Mucker. A much, much bigger Mucker.

  Owen stood, surrounded by gravel, to find the hole so deep he could not see its end. Owen strapped on his headlamp, grabbed his backpack and the book, and climbed atop the gravel to where he could squeeze through and follow Mucker.

  A strange orange-green glow came from Mucker as he led the way. Owen scooted along, pulling the backpack. When they reached the end of where Mucker had dug, the creature stopped, as if waiting for Owen
to read again. When Owen dug out the book, Mucker started in again, chomping and chewing, clearing dirt and rock from before them. Mucker chewed with his ever-growing teeth, then brushed the residue back with his body, pushing it around Owen.

  Mucker was growing with each chomp of dirt, so he had to be swallowing some of it. It made no scientific sense, but it seemed the bigger Mucker grew and the more progress he made, the more air came from the very pores of his skin, supplying Owen with all he needed to breathe.

  Seven hours into the trip, Owen’s eyelids felt like they weighed five pounds. Mucker had accelerated and moved huge amounts of dirt and rock with every chomp. Owen could now kneel in the tunnel without his head touching the ceiling. He stopped reading long enough to feel the smooth sides, which reminded him of the ones under the bookstore. He had to wonder if Mucker had created those. Then he remembered he was to read despite his fatigue.

  Silver and gold pass through your hands, but a good friend lasts forever and is to be treasured above any material thing.

  Owen wished he had a friend to share this experience, but who would have believed it? He was glad he didn’t have to face the police or the principal or Gordan and his crew, at least for a while. This whole journey felt like running away, but he knew he would eventually have to set things right with everyone, including his father.

  A brother is born to walk with you through difficult times, but there is a friend even closer and more faithful than a brother.

  As Owen read, Mucker tore more dirt and sediment from the walls. Mucker now weighed enough that he could crush Owen simply by rolling the wrong way.

  Owen reached the end of the chapter on directions and then reread it. He did not understand what a Watcher was, nor could he comprehend what he was to experience when he breached the portal.

  Owen was now able to stand, the top of the tunnel well above his head. It felt good to be fully upright, and as his reading speed increased, so did Mucker’s chewing. With swiftness and urgency, Mucker angled down and the tunnel became so steep that Owen sat and slid behind his friend, finding it difficult to keep the book steady. He found a map labeled with names and mountain ranges and forests, and his heart swelled.

  RHM rushed into the Dragon’s war room at the top of the highest spire of the castle. From there the Dragon or any of the top warlords on his council could see the expanse of the kingdom. From the shards of glass that lay by the walls and the holes in the windows, it was clear that no one was safe from being thrown out.

  RHM approached the thick wooden council table, surrounded by the Dragon and his underlings, and placed a piece of parchment before the creature. He stepped back. “Sire, there has been a report of a rumbling coming from portal number three.”

  “So soon?” the Dragon said. “What of the Slimesees in that region?”

  RHM shook his head. “There was a disturbance—”

  “Disturbance?” the Dragon snapped. “What sort of disturbance?”

  “The water rose like a tsunami. We have not been able to track the Slimesees.”

  The Dragon closed his eyes and let the air expel from his lungs. Members of the war council moved back from the table, clearly fearing fire. The Dragon opened his eyes and glared at RHM. “How long?”

  “Not long. The portal may have already been breached.”

  The Dragon slithered to the southern windows and peered through the mist. He scratched his scaly back. “So this boy must have found the Wormling, and the book is in his hands. But how much can he understand? How will he be able to go against us?”

  Nervous laughter spread around the table. Dreadwart, the horned one, said, “But, sire, if we simply rid the kingdom of this Wormling and destroy the boy in the Highlands, we will not have to worry about any understanding, or in the worst case, uniting—”

  “Silence!” the Dragon bellowed, eyes gleaming as he spun. “You were told never to use that word in my presence!”

  Dreadwart turned, eyes clenched as if awaiting the fiery blast. “Begging your indulgence, sire. I want only what is best for your kingdom. If we snuff him out now, we would not have to worry about his breaching the portal, let alone ultimately succeeding.”

  The Dragon turned back to the window, arms behind his back, head tilted. “If he has made it past the Slimesees, he will be most vulnerable when he reaches the Lowlands.”

  Dreadwart rose. “If you’ll allow me, sire, I would be honored to root him out and complete the task the Slimesees failed to accomplish.”

  The Dragon turned, haughty. “Are you forgetting that he slipped through my talons as well?”

  “Only in the Highlands, sire. And you killed the other. Your powers are diminished there, or you would have annihilated him.”

  “Silence,” the Dragon said. “Your bleating tires me. Go then if you are so confident. And deliver his body to me.” He turned to RHM. “Continue your search for the boy in hiding.”

  Dreadwart bowed and pressed his palms together in thanks, then strode from the room, his massive hooves striking the floor.

  “And retrieve the book as well!” the Dragon called after him. “I do not want it falling into the hands of the rabble.”

  When Dreadwart was gone, the Dragon turned to the others. “Frankly, I am not sure Dreadwart can succeed. That isn’t all bad. If this Wormling is the one and the book is the prophecy the King has long desired, perhaps we can use the lad for our own purposes. Seduce him. Make him a servant of the true master.”

  The council clapped and banged the table.

  When the Dragon raised an eyebrow, they stopped and joined him at the window. Dreadwart crossed the bridge below them, his aides not far behind. The enormous beast’s horns glistened in the mist, as did his sharpened hooves. On his back hung a black cape that reached the ground, steel spikes embedded into the fabric, decorated with the crest of the Dragon.

  “If he kills the Wormling,” the Dragon said, “our worries are over. But if the Wormling slips through and lives, we will use him. Either way we win. Eventually the kingdoms will be united under me, the true and sovereign king.”

  “Hail to the Dragon!” the others cried.

  Deep in the Valley of Shoam, as the morning mists began to rise above barren treetops and hills, the lonesome single note of a horn wafted its way down the hillside like a cool summer breeze. It was sustained with clarity and precision, and someone new to the land might have thought it simply accompaniment for another morning.

  But no, it was a clarion call, signaling something new, something wonderful and terrible at the same time. A chance. A risk. A last-ditch effort to restore what the Dragon had long ago defiled.

  Several homes, shacks with thin roofs and weathered walls, sat at the bottom of the ravine. Thin lines of smoke rose from chimneys.

  A face appeared at the dirty window of the shack closest to the mountain. A fat hand wiped the glass, and tired and puffy bug eyes peered out. Scruffy beard. Red lips. Shaggy hair streaked with gray hung to the man’s bulbous nose. He drew the hair back over his ears and listened. Then he withdrew from the window and threw on a cloak. He chose his barefoot steps carefully on the crude porch, avoiding rotting boards, then jammed on leather boots as worn and tired as the man himself.

  He jumped past steps that looked like they couldn’t hold his weight anyway, slid in mud, feet flying, righting himself to head up the mountain. But as he lifted his eyes to the hills, the single note blew again, and a look came over his face—hope, anticipation, eagerness—shining through a visage lined by years of hardship and worry.

  For many years the man had lived under the threat of attack by the Dragon. That’s why fear seeped through the skin and entered the souls of those in the Lowlands—too many years of wishing and hoping for the promise. The long-haired man ran through the trees, grabbing limbs, pulling himself up toward the sound. Needles released and limbs snapped. Rosin flowed and stuck to his hands, leaving them smelling of sweet pine.

  Ahead of him small bushes shook, and through th
e sparse leaves and over the needle-matted ground raced a smaller being. Over the rocks and rills the furry face somersaulted and finally came to rest at the huge man’s feet.

  “Watcher,” the man said, “why aren’t you at your post?”

  The Watcher stood four feet from toe to head. She bore the face of a terrier, with brown and blonde fur that shot back from her dark nose and tufts of hair over brown eyes. Dainty ears stood as upside-down Vs on her head, twitching with excitement as she brushed needles from her fur. Her mouth appeared more human than animal, and her lips still bore the imprint of the horn she carried. “Rumbling,” she said, gasping. “Louder and louder. Inside the mountain. From the portal.”

  “It can’t be a Wormling, can it?”

  She nodded quickly, pointing. “The portal shook like an earthquake. You must come, Bardig.”

  They struggled up the hill while the rest of the village slept. Soon children would play in the rain-soaked streets, and animals would cry for their morning meals. Above the trees, shrouded in mist, yellow-backed birds with long legs, short beaks, and piercing eyes took flight, gliding then alighting on barren limbs near the rocks. One bird separated from the others and hovered over Bardig and Watcher as they climbed, pushing each other, pulling on branches, laboring to make it to the portal.

  Bardig glanced at the bird and hurled a stone at it. It squawked and rose farther, high above the trees and the portal, flying toward the icy blue waters of Mountain Lake. The bird’s wings touched the surface, disturbing the bird’s perfect reflection for only an instant.

  “I know I’ve sounded the alarm before,” Watcher said. “And there were many other times when I thought I felt something and wanted to sound it. You don’t know how many times.”

  “I can feel the vibrations from here,” Bardig said. “You may have redeemed yourself this time.”

  “Really, Bardig?” she said. “A true Wormling? In my lifetime? On my watch?” Watcher used the horn as a cane to propel herself forward.