The Sword of the Wormling (18 page)

Owen waited until deep into the starless night, then led Watcher toward the water that surrounded the castle. This was more than a moat, much too broad to be covered by a lowered drawbridge. How did people get in and out? At the edge, still short of the light from the guards' torches, Owen stuck a hand in the water. Icy. While he had learned to swim—and well—there would be no splashing about in this body of water. Watcher might have been able to ford it with her fur as insulation, but he would cramp up and drown before reaching halfway.

“They must have a system to ferry over and back,” he said. “Let's look around.”

As they tiptoed about, Owen was grateful for a heavy mist that blocked even the torches from reflecting off the water. He could hear the guards laughing and talking as he and Watcher searched. Finally, behind an outcropping of rocks near the narrowest stretch of water—about 40 yards from land to castle—Watcher stumbled across an ancient craft, no bigger than a rowboat.

“If this is here, that means that someone is out of the castle,” Watcher said. “Otherwise, wouldn't they leave it inside?”

“Just lucky for us,” Owen said.

“But they'll be back.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Wormling! If there was a bridge, we wouldn't need this boat!”

“I mean we'll worry about that if and when the time comes.”

They quietly set the boat in the water and clambered aboard. Within minutes Owen had rowed to the rocky shore, pausing and holding his breath between oar strokes to listen for any hint that the guards heard them.

They beached the boat, and Owen said, “Wait here. If I have trouble, I'll give the signal.”

“I haven't come all this way to wait outside,” Watcher said.

Owen faced her. “Watcher, please. Stay here until I need you.”

She rolled her eyes.

Using the climbing methods Mordecai taught, Owen slipped his hands between stones and pulled himself 200 feet up the wall of the castle. As he ascended—reminding himself not to look down—he occupied himself wondering how many times this old fortress had been under siege. How many times had the King had to flee? And how many royal families had lived here over the centuries?

As Owen neared the first terrace, he stopped and peered through the mist at where two guards were illuminated by a torch. Another torch was lit to his left, but the spot in the ramparts was unattended.

“He's coming tonight,” one guard said, and Owen froze. “Preparations have already been made.”

The King? The Wormling? Who?

“He'll burn half the villages on the way; don't you think?” the other said.

The Dragon! Whoever had used the boat was likely out scouting, ready to sound an alarm if the Dragon was spotted.

“We can only hope. The citizens have caused him no end of trouble. Just wait till he catches that Wormling. His forces already have the book.”

“The Dragon has it?”

“No! It's here! Delivered days ago. It's magical, you know.”

“I've heard. Good thing
we
have it. It would be dangerous in the hands of the Wormling.”

“Wormling schmermling. They say he's just a kid.”

“Then why can't the Dragon destroy him? I hear he curses the Wormling every night.”

“Well, Dreadwart was wiped out. And the Wormling attacked the scythe flyers—20 or 30 chopped up with that giant sword of his.”

Somehow all this exaggeration gave Owen confidence. And to know the book was here made his heart leap. He had to get inside, maybe through the unguarded rampart. But as he scurried to his left, a loose piece of the wall tumbled into the darkness. With all his weight on his feet, a foothold broke loose as well, and there he dangled, 20 stories above the ground. Only his strength training allowed him to hang on.

“Did you hear that?” a guard said. “Something just dropped in the water.”

“Probably a fish. Or one of the gators. I saw one get a jargid the other night. Thing didn't even have time to squeak.”

Watcher was down there at the water's edge! No doubt she was watching Owen, not paying attention to the water. If a gator devoured her, Owen would never forgive himself for making her stay. He would feel just like Mordecai.

“I'd better get back,” one guard said. He moved past where Owen hung not five feet below the ledge.

Owen held his breath and flattened himself against the wall, praying the guard wouldn't look over. When the guard had passed, Owen pulled himself up and hopped over the wall, landing catlike, without a sound. He scampered across the walkway into the shadows, out of reach of the torchlight.

Owen had to do something about Watcher. He could imagine the gator floating quietly behind her. He closed his eyes, sucked in air so his belly stuck out, and pretended he was one of the thick-skinned guards with the helmet like a crown. With lips pursed and chin puckered, he strutted to the edge and leaned out, forcing himself to bellow, “The gators will make a good meal of anyone near the water tonight!”

“Aye!” other guards called out in unison.

Owen moved back into the darkness and resumed his climb. When he reached the final parapet, he climbed over and quickly entered a window into an enormous dim room. The worn and tattered drapery hung blackened by fire, and the walls were charred. Candle wax pooled on the cool stone floor. Owen tried to imagine it before the fire, a bedroom with a canopied bed and walls covered with festoonery only a princess could love. Owen opened a massive wood door with a great creak and found fine linen robes bearing intricate designs. He shook the soot off one and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Suddenly, as if a breeze had blown into a vacant room in his mind, Owen believed he had been in this room in his dreams. The drawer of a nightstand by the bed held the remnants of a child's drawing. Stick figures with round heads. Two large ones in the background, a smaller one in front, and a tiny one in the arms of the figure with long brown hair.

On the wall a frame contained a map that included the lake, the castle, the mountains, and the Valley of Shoam. Owen traced a finger over the Badlands.

Could this be the room of the Queen? Had he stumbled onto the King's bedchamber? If so, then the pile of rubble in the corner . . .

Owen knelt and picked up what was left of a post with rounded edges. The fine wood was inlaid with exquisite detail, just like the robe he wore, and a few inches of material remained—the colors of a rainbow. A child's coverlet. A wooden rattle lay underneath, along with a toy bear with tiny ears and buttons for eyes.

Was this the crib of the Son now grown, who would unite the kingdoms and bring peace and freedom and joy to both worlds? Could a baby grow up to become a liberator of people so much older and so far away? Owen trusted
The Book of the King
, so it must be true.

He slipped the bear into his pocket before a blast of air swept in and the tattered draperies fanned. Owen heard the faint call of Watcher from far below as a fiery, red-orange glow filled the window.

Owen's voice from high atop the castle wall had alerted Watcher, and she pulled the boat between her and the water. Twice she saw the eyes of a gator and tossed rocks at it, sending it under. She growled at the beast as it circled.

But her growl turned to a whimper as enormous wings appeared out of a black cloud above. Her ears fell back, she dipped her head, and her fur fell close to her body—except on her back, where it stood straight. The gator had distracted her from sensing such a clear and present danger, but now that it drew near the castle, every nerve in her body was on high alert.

“Wormling,” she whispered. Her job was to sense and watch and warn, but she couldn't yell or the beast would swoop down and consume her with one belch of fire.

Some in her village had criticized her for her slowness in warning—the very same ones who said her position was useless, who said they no longer needed a Watcher, that the tales of the Wormling were simply superstition and the power once vested in Watchers had left long ago.

Watcher's teeth chattered and she shook. What if the Dragon killed the Wormling? Should
she
continue the search for the King's Son? She cowered by the castle wall as the great beast circled, a phalanx of escorts flying before and after him. These flyers, though smaller, looked much like demon flyers but could maneuver more deftly. Their eyes were a luminous red, and they scanned the castle.

Far above her, the guards leaned over the wall, bowing their helmeted heads to their leader. Perhaps they feared a blast of fire.

Watcher had no idea what to do.

The Wormling can take care of himself.

Could he know the Dragon is coming?

He's the one sent for the King's Son, not me.

He'll die a fiery death.

I must keep my head and not insert myself into this fight. But I have to warn him! It's my job!

And yet he was the one who left me here, telling me to wait for his signal. I must protect myself.

The battle raged inside until the sick, pungent aroma of death that surrounded the Dragon—rancid meat mixed with smoke, a repulsive mixture of rotten garbage and burning flesh—reached her. She could only imagine how he smelled indoors.

The Dragon's wings flapped as he descended to the very windowsill the Wormling had entered, and Watcher knew she could no longer keep silent. She closed her eyes and let out a feral cry she hoped would reach her friend.

Suddenly stillness fell over the whole castle. When Watcher opened her eyes, the Dragon's flying minions had rallied and were barreling down at her, but she feared the Dragon himself even more than these.

His eyes had locked onto hers, and with a roar that made his own flying forces pull up and away, the Dragon let go of his perch and dropped in a free fall, tucking his wings for greatest aerodynamic effect. Watcher could only stare as the black mass that was the Dragon grew closer, his tongue slithering in and out, as if anticipating a tasty meal.

Indecision would kill her, she knew. Had she lingered a second longer, Owen would have found her charred remains. Instead she propelled herself with a mighty leap over the boat and into the water. She seemed to move in slow motion, trying to hurry herself as the Dragon swooped like a hawk over a field mouse.

Watcher heard the blast of the Dragon's breath—a thunderous, molten exhale—as he spread his wings to keep from crashing into the rocks. She felt heat sear her back just as she plunged into the green murky water, and it instantly turned bright orange. The icy impact took what little breath she had, but she dared not surface as the bubbling, boiling water pushed her farther down.

She was not alone. Fish and turtles were also diving for the bottom. She kicked, trying to keep from rising as the flames dissolved. But Watcher broke the surface in the midst of smoke and steam, gasping and coughing. She heard a gurgle and looked up into two red eyes. The Dragon sent another blast of flame toward her. She had just enough time to gulp and go under, swimming for the middle of the lake.

She had eluded the monster above—at least temporarily. But awaiting her was the gator she had driven away with rocks only moments before.

Owen sank into a dark corner of the chamber as the roar of fire and the Dragon's curses filled the air. After the noise seemed to recede, he moved to the window, only to see steam and bubbling water in the lake.

When the wing flaps came again, Owen rushed to the wall opposite the robe closet and pressed himself against it, trying to disappear. A stone under his hand gave way, and the wall moved ever so slightly. He turned and pushed with all his strength, and the stones crunched together as the wall slid open.

Owen ducked inside and closed the wall as far as he could, but before he could lean into it with his shoulder and push it the rest of the way, dust and ash flew through the small opening and a presence as evil and dark as Owen had ever felt filled the bedchamber. He didn't dare move, breathe, or even blink.

“Human!” the Dragon said. “I smell a human!”

“Sire, welcome!” Owen recognized the voice of the being who had taken
The Book of the King.
“A feast has been prepared, and we have made every accommodation for you—”

“Who allowed a human in here?” the Dragon roared.

“There are several, sire. As I said, a feast has been planned, and we shall serve some for dinner.”

The Dragon sniffed. “No, I mean in this room.”

“Oh, surely not, Highness. The guards have reported no—”

“Then how do you explain the Watcher I just drowned below?”

Oh no! Not Watcher!

“Begging your pardon, Master, but a Watcher is not human.”

“But you yourself reported a Watcher with the Wormling on Mirantha!”

“Oh yes, you're right. I should have dispatched the disgusting thing when I had the chance.”

“My point is that it is unlikely she was here alone. The Wormling could be close. He'll be looking for the book, from whence his power comes.”

“Perhaps we could lure him into the open if we capture the Watcher,” RHM said. “Are you sure she has drowned?”

“That should be easy enough to determine. Regardless, we can tell the Wormling we have her.”

“Good, sire! And if she
is
alive, we can do things to her species that will create great pain and make her—”

“I know!” the Dragon said, fire sparking. “Do not lecture me.”

“Apologies, sire.”

“The prisoner is enough to lure the Wormling. But see if you can find the Watcher anyway, and bring her to the counsel room.”

Owen heard them leave and was about to return to the room when he stepped back and nearly fell down a spiral stairway. No matter what happened, he could not take his focus off his quest. He could do nothing about Watcher after having left her vulnerable; that was sure. He only hoped she had somehow survived. Mordecai said everything happened for a purpose, even the bad things.

Owen had to find out where the stairway led. He pushed the stone entrance closed and gingerly made his way into the darkness.