The Book of the King

by Chris Fabry

  They passed the Marking Tree—the biggest in the forest—where Watcher carved a mark on the eve of each new year. She had circled the tree three times with marks, taking up where her father had stopped, and his marks ascended from the marks her grandfather had made. A female Watcher would have been unheard of in their day, but having seen no Wormling for generations, most now called them fairy tales. Watchers were laughed at. But a remnant few supported Watcher’s family with food and supplies. After dark, of course. Always after dark.

  And so the day her father had become too ill to climb the mountain and had confined himself to the small house where her mother could bring him soup and bread, Watcher had climbed to the mark of the Dragon and taken her place on the smooth stone where, for generations, her people had stood as sentries for the hope of the Lowlands.

  “The very trees shake,” Bardig said, panting, grabbing a centuries-old stone wall for support. “So much moisture. The lake will surely burst over the side and wash us away.”

  “Don’t say that, Bardig. The water will never overflow its banks.”

  “I’m talking about the shaking. It’s—”

  But the shaking stopped. They stood looking at each other in the suddenly disquieting silence.

  And then the earth above them burst open, and Bardig had just enough time to pull Watcher behind the Marking Tree. A shower of rocks and damp earth and moss and even trees plunged toward them. They covered their heads.

  Bardig peeked around the tree and yelled, “Mucker!”

  Out of the great hole in the earth spilled the largest worm he had ever seen. Dirty white, almost translucent, it cascaded down the mountain, unable to stop. It finally reached the Marking Tree, slamming it with the middle of its body, head and tail plunging forward, wrapped around the tree like an overgrown lasso.

  Mucker was soft and spongy, and Bardig and Watcher stepped onto its back and pushed themselves up. Watcher giggled as she bounced, then slid to the ground. Bardig, slower and heavier, sank into the worm’s soft underbelly, finally reaching the ground.

  “Is it dead?” Watcher said.

  Bardig walked above the animal, trying to find its head. “I’ve never seen one before, so I wouldn’t know. Can you take the pulse of a Mucker?”

  Another stream of dirt and rocks tumbled down the hill, and both covered their heads. A boy stood above them, dwarfed by the giant opening. In one hand he held some kind of pack, and in the other . . . what?

  “The book,” Bardig whispered.

  Owen stood at the edge of the hole, looking at a new world. It was strange, but he would have to study it later. For now, Mucker lay motionless, wrapped around a tree, studied by a hairy man with dark features and an animal, mouth agape. The man said something to the animal, and the two ran toward Owen.

  Had they killed Mucker? Their speed scared Owen, and he looked for something with which to defend himself. He thrust out the book and yelled, “‘The King commands you.’”

  The animal dropped to its knees in the dirt.

  The man followed, bowing before Owen. “Welcome, Wormling,” he said in a deep voice.

  “You know me?”

  “We’ve been expecting you for many years.”

  Owen motioned them to rise.

  The man towered over him, while the animal came up to his chest and looked at him with eyes as brown as the earth. The man introduced them and informed Owen that “Watcher alerted me.”

  “How did she know I was coming?” Owen said.

  “The vibrations,” Watcher said.

  Owen fell back. An animal that talks?

  “Do Watchers not speak in your world?” Bardig said.

  Watcher frowned. “He’s a human. From the Highlands.”

  “I’m not sure what a Watcher is,” Owen said, looking more closely at the animal. “You aren’t human, are you?”

  “If I were human, I wouldn’t be a Watcher, would I? I couldn’t have sensed your coming or warn you about attacks from the invisibles. And—”

  “Invisibles?” Owen said.

  Watcher rolled her eyes.

  Bardig sighed. “I can see you have a lot to learn. Let’s start with your name.”

  Owen introduced himself and said he lived over a bookstore.

  “You have more books than this one?” Bardig said.

  “Hundreds. Thousands even.”

  “And you can read?”

  Owen laughed. “Of course. Can’t you?”

  “It’s not allowed. For anyone, human or otherwise.”

  “How sad. Well, we’ll have to talk with someone about changing the rule. Now what about my friend?”

  “Yes,” Bardig said, “let’s tend to the Mucker, and then I’ll take you home. You must be hungry. How long were you in the tunnel?”

  As they gingerly made their way down the steep incline to Mucker, Owen told Bardig he didn’t know how long, but that he had begun after midnight in his world and that he had probably read the whole day. “After facing the Slimesees, I—”

  “Oh, go on!” Watcher said. “You didn’t battle the Slimesees!”

  “I did,” he said, describing it and what had happened.

  Watcher scowled.

  Owen put a hand on Mucker’s back. “Are you all right, friend?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you,” Bardig said, “that legend says a Mucker is good for one trip and that’s all. Start out small, did he?”

  Owen nodded.

  Bardig shook his head. “They expand and move so much earth and rock that their bodies just give out. And their teeth get worked to the bone.”

  Mucker’s eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. Indeed his teeth had been whittled to the gums.

  “You did it,” Owen said, fighting tears. “But I don’t want to lose you. How will I get back without you?”

  Owen heard sniffling and turned to see Watcher weeping. He feared he had gotten off on the wrong foot with her, but it seemed clear that she was having second thoughts about him. “What a faithful friend you are, Owen Reeder. If you have this much compassion for a lowly animal, how much more will you do for us?”

  Owen stayed with Mucker, but the animal didn’t stir. “We can’t just leave him here,” Owen said.

  “The people will help us,” Bardig said. “We’ll give him a proper send-off.”

  Portal three was near Mountain Lake, Dreadwart knew, and the village below was in the path of water that could wash the area clean.

  How he hated the process of going from the kingdom of darkness and invisibility to the realm of light. Those in the Lowlands endured such squalor and earthiness and lived devoid of power and riches. But they had something even the Dragon did not possess. At least not yet. Such was the unspoken topic of each council meeting. The elephant in the room, as it were.

  Dreadwart slipped through the clouds and became visible to the rabble below. He had little to fear. The beings on land could not stand up to his weapons. All they had were sticks and stones and a few blends of metal. Nothing he couldn’t defeat with one blow from a single nostril.

  Dreadwart circled in the air until a minion returned to report the breach of the portal.

  Dreadwart smiled. “The time has come, my faithful ones, to lay waste to this earthly imbroglio. We will leave not one stone upon another until we have rooted the vermin from the soil. Death comes from the Dragon and by my sword today.”

  “Dreadwart!” his minions cried.

  Owen had slipped into the world of the Lowlands so early in the morning that Watcher’s horn had roused no one and alerted only one man who was already up. But Owen could tell from Watcher’s and Bardig’s reactions that when the village discovered him, there would be fanfare.

  The Book of the King indicated that in the Lowlands, a world not as sophisticated as his, wars would be waged. He could have no idea, of course, of his own role in the same, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to think about it just yet. In truth, he was thinking more about his empty stomach and the loss of Mucker.


  As the three made their way down the mountain, Bardig pointed out various houses and told of those who dwelt there.

  “What’s the smaller dwelling behind each house?” Owen said.

  Watcher rolled her eyes.

  “That’s the scrumhouse,” Bardig said. “You know, where you go to—to exercise your bodily functions.”

  “The scrumhouse is your toilet?” Owen said. “You have outdoor toilets?”

  “I suppose you’d rather have yours indoors,” Watcher said, shaking her head. Clearly she had gotten over her fascination with him.

  Bardig’s home proved cozy, with a warm fire and fruit sliced in a wooden basket on the table. The house was one big room combining the kitchen, bedroom, and living room. Four beams stretched from the ground to the ceiling.

  Bardig motioned Owen to a chair. As soon as he sat, keeping his backpack snug on his back, a lump moved in the bed in the far corner.

  Bardig touched the covers gently and bent, whispering.

  A large woman with a jowly face and a white nightcap sat straight up, eyes wide. “A Wormling? In my house?” She squinted at Watcher, then at Owen, and tumbled out of bed, banging her knees on the floor. She struggled to her feet and made her way to Owen, sticking her face inches from his and studying him. “A real Wormling. And you’ve come to help?”

  “He has a book in that bag,” Bardig said.

  The woman gasped, as if someone had brought all the gold in the world into her home. “The book?”

  Watcher nodded, wiping fruit juice from around her mouth.

  “Will you be staying long?” the woman said. “I suppose you have a schedule.”

  “I’m not sure,” Owen said. “I’ve just arrived.”

  Bardig scowled at Watcher and took the fruit basket, handing it to Owen. “Take what you like. And I’ll get you some flat meal.”

  While his wife studied Owen and frowned, Bardig fetched a wood tray draped with a cloth. He set it before Owen, removing the cloth to reveal what looked like smashed corn bread cut into small wedges.

  Watcher reached around Owen, grabbed a piece, and devoured it, eliciting a wicked stare from Bardig.

  “Thank you,” Owen said. “It smells delicious.” He picked up a piece, but it crumbled and dropped to the floor.

  A small, catlike animal appeared from the shadows and scarfed down the crumbs.

  “Good girl,” Bardig said. He nudged the creature away with his foot when it began sniffing Owen’s clothes.

  Owen carefully put another piece of flat meal to his mouth, but before he could take a bite, Watcher grabbed his wrist, sending the food to the floor again. “Why’d you—?”

  “Shh,” Watcher said, ears twitching and the hair on her back standing straight.

  Bardig and his wife looked terrified.

  Watcher’s pupils dilated suddenly, then closed to the size of a pin.

  “What is it?” Owen whispered.

  “An invisible—breaching the clouds.”

  “What does that mean?” Owen said.

  Watcher scampered to the window.

  Bardig pulled a huge sword from a cabinet near the door and handed it to Owen.

  “Is that also a hatchet in there?” Owen said. “Let me have it.”

  “You are more skilled with that?”

  “No. But the sword is too heavy.”

  Can you tell who it is, Watcher?” Bardig said.

  Bardig, Watcher, and Owen crept out onto a path leading to the town center.

  “I sense strength,” Watcher whispered. “A battle-scarred being. Hoofbeats.”

  “A horse warrior?”

  “Much stronger and larger.”

  “One of the council then,” Bardig said. “That means they know the Wormling is here.”

  “Council?” Owen said.

  “The Dragon’s. But if you are who we think you are—and obviously who the council thinks you are—why doesn’t he come himself?”

  “He already came for me. In my world.”

  Watcher smirked and shook her head. “If the Dragon came for you, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “No, it happened. He chased three of us—me, a friend, and an old man. The man removed something from my foot so the Dragon couldn’t find me.”

  “Old man?” Bardig said.

  Owen described Mr. Page, and Bardig paled.

  “It couldn’t be,” Watcher said.

  “Couldn’t be who?” Owen said.

  Above them the air came alive with what sounded like helicopter blades.

  Watcher pointed to the hillside. “Dreadwart. His hooves beat the sound of attack.”

  “Blow the alarm,” Bardig said.

  Watcher grabbed her horn and blew four strong blasts and a short one.

  Within seconds people streamed from their homes and shacks along the path. Some exited scrumhouses, hastily zipping and buttoning. They searched the sky as the hoofbeats grew louder.

  Owen was amazed at how many lived in so few homes. Most looked thin, almost skeletal, shawls draped around their shoulders against the cold. The Valley of Shoam was nothing like home.

  “Dreadwart!” someone shouted, and the awful name was repeated dozens of times.

  “Do not fear!” Bardig yelled. “This very morning Watcher discovered a Wormling! He will help fight the beast!”

  “A Wormling?” many said.

  Others chattered and whispered.

  “Is that small thing a real Wormling?”

  The crowds moved toward Owen, but when a fierce sonic-boom type blast shook the earth, they ducked and trained their eyes on the sky.

  “If Dreadwart is an invisible,” Owen said, “how did you know he was coming?”

  Watcher sounded annoyed. “It’s what I do. I sense the unseen.”

  “How am I supposed to fight—?”

  “You’ll see him,” she snapped. “Or are you too scared to stand your ground?”

  Bardig put an arm around him. “Don’t worry, Wormling. Our world is not always this fearsome.”

  Dreadwart split the clouds and plunged to earth, a jet-black beast glistening in the rising sun, silver horns swinging like a bucking rodeo bull’s. On his back lay a spike-studded cape, reaching to gleaming hooves sharpened to deadly points. Dreadwart’s tail was sheathed in metal and ended in a razor-sharp spear. Even a ring in his nose looked to be a weapon, and he swung it like a club. He opened his mouth to reveal long teeth like a tiger’s. Anyone caught in his viselike jaws would be torn and crushed.

  People ran toward their homes, but Dreadwart’s tail snapped at a row of the claptrap buildings, and they exploded, wood and ceiling tiles flying, along with beams and logs and kitchen utensils and tables. The citizens of the Lowlands screamed and headed for the hills as the terrible day of Dreadwart unfolded.

  The monster uprooted and toppled trees like toys with one kick. Children wailed and clung to their parents. Dreadwart moved toward a small red schoolhouse with crude swings hanging from trees. He lowered his head and drove his horns through the building, lifting it off its foundation. With a jerk of his head he threw the structure behind him, and it crashed against the hill.

  Shooting a blast from his nostrils like a jet engine, Dreadwart dug his sharpened hooves into the ground and bellowed a ferocious roar. Even the birds fell silent as he scanned the village. “People of the valley,” he said in a gravelly and foreboding voice, “the council has treated you fairly and allowed you to live in peace.”

  “When you allowed us to live at all,” Watcher muttered.

  Dreadwart’s voice boomed across the hill and shook the trees. “But among you today stands a Wormling responsible for many deaths in the other world. He must be delivered to me to stand trial.”

  Bardig leaned close to Owen. “Is it true?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “If you harbor him,” Dreadwart continued, “you will receive the justice he deserves. Your blood is on your own hands. Now send the Wormling forth!”<
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  Whispers filled the woods as frightened villagers looked around. “Give him what he wants.”

  “If we don’t, we’ll all die.”

  “But the Wormling has done nothing to deserve this.”

  “Neither have we! Do you want to die for something he’s accused of?”

  Bardig raised a hand. “How do we know you will keep your word if we give you the Wormling?”

  “What?” Watcher said. “You’re not thinking of handing him over to—?”

  Bardig squeezed Watcher’s arm.

  “I swear by the Dragon, you fool,” Dreadwart thundered. Now softer, yet even more menacing: “I swear by your fallen King.”

  The people gasped and fell back. Could it be true?

  A lone voice rang out like a tiny bell compared to the power of the voice of Dreadwart. “Our King is not dead,” a little girl said. “He lives!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd as the child’s parents muzzled her.

  Dreadwart lifted his head. “Your King has left you and this realm. He was discovered in the other world.” He paused. “And he was killed by the very Wormling who stands among you.”

  Owen felt the stares, including Watcher’s. “He’s lying,” he whispered. “I never even met a king, let alone killed him.”

  Watcher skittered next to Bardig. “This is the one who’s supposed to lead us to freedom? We should look for someone else in the cave.”

  “Present the Wormling now and there will be no further destruction!” Dreadwart said. “Otherwise, believe the fairy tales, and you shall all surely die!”

  “Fairy tales?” Owen whispered.

  “The prophecy,” Watcher said. “The King’s Son is to unite the two worlds and defeat the Dragon.”

  “How do you know the prophecy if you have no books?”

  “The King told us before the castle was attacked and his children were taken. He told us to stay on guard and remain ever vigilant. He promised the Wormling would come, and the King’s Son would be found. . . .”

  “Give him up, Bardig!” someone shouted.