The Sword of the Wormling (20 page)

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 her 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.

Owen shot out of the cell like a cannonball and brought the butt of his sword down onto the guard's head before he even had a chance to get a whistle to his lips.

“Finish him,” Qwamay said. “We have to make sure he doesn't wake up.”

When Owen hesitated, Qwamay reached for his sword.

Owen yanked it away. “I never take a life when I don't have to.”

“You read too much. Well, it's your own funeral. I'll be long gone by the time he squeals.”

They ran past crates and cages, coming to a musty room full of rotting food. Prince Qwamay paused, shoving a handful of turnips into his mouth. How strange to see the Son of the King of all the land resorting to eating trash.

“I'll find food fit for you,” Owen said. “Just follow me.”

“Never mind. I'll find my own way out.”

As footsteps caromed off the walls, Owen pulled Qwamay into a corner behind the black curtain. They stood deathly still while someone passed, snarling, headed for the cell.

“Through here,” Owen said, pushing the panel that led to the secret stairwell.

“Only if it leads outside,” Qwamay said.

“There is no way out from down here. Come on. At least you'll be safe.”

Qwamay shook his head. “Give me your sword, and I'll fight my way out.”

“Don't be foolish! They'll cut you down as soon as they see you. Follow me and I'll get you to safety.”

Qwamay snorted. “You really believe you're the Wormling, don't you? some kind of hero with a sword and a chomping Mucker?”

“How could I not believe? It's been proven over and over. Some who have seen do not believe, though the evidence is right before them. Listen, I promised your mother I would bring you to her, and that's what I'm going to do, whether you like it or not.”

“My mother?” Qwamay said. “Where did you see her?”

Owen told him.

“And she bought your story about being this special worm child?”

“She trusts me to bring you to her and release the captives.”

“She trusts too much.”

“That is no place for a Queen. But if you and I band together—”

“If you're such a savior, why didn't you rescue her yourself?”

“My mission was to find
you
! But you have to step up and lead.”

“Lead who?”

“There are many in the land loyal to your father; they just have to be given a vision. They perish for lack of knowledge.”

Qwamay patted Owen's shoulder. “Well, good luck spreading the vision.”

A shout came from the cell area and a whistle blew.

“Now you have no choice, Prince,” Owen said, pulling him through the panel.