The Book of the King (2 page)

We will turn to Owen shortly, for his story is the reason we are writing, but the image on the rock brings another scene we must visit—the actual dragon the image represents. The image comes to life in the Dragon's invisible realm high above. We call it invisible, but it is so only for humans and only when those who live above stay above. You should be happy you cannot see this kingdom, which invades your own and is all around you.

As you moved closer to this beast—if you could stand the stench—you would see pure evil. It is not easy to describe such a vile, despicable being to adults or children, but it is necessary in order to see the truth about him and understand what Owen is up against.

Imagine a creature so horrible, so terrifying and hideous that he makes
repugnant
sound like a compliment. Sulfurous breath—which means he exhales something akin to burned charcoal and smoke from a thousand campfires gone bad. And that's on a good day. Huge nostrils flare with each breath, and a drool of yellow saliva—yes, yellow—slithers down a crusted chin. Red, glowing reptilian eyes are shrouded with scaly lids, and a great tail stretches from the massive, undulating body. The monstrous head looks like a cross between a horse's and a human's. And the wings—veined, cracked, and enormous, though he has them tucked away when he's resting—are able to propel him with frightening speed.

We would not be telling you this if it weren't absolutely necessary. But you must come closer to this being, because he is central to the conflict. If this upsets you, perhaps you prefer stories about furry animals running about, speaking funny lines, and playing games. We have only just begun. By the end there will be blood and an attack so vicious that your first reaction will be to turn away from these pages. But we promise—you will like Owen. You will love him from the moment you meet him. His heart is so genuine. He is such a good lad that you would want him as your friend, even if you had scores of them. And so we continue.

Suffice it to say that this being, the image on the rock come to life, whom we will refer to from now on as the Dragon, does not like to be stirred in the night. You could say he likes his beauty sleep, but there is no beauty about him. Perhaps he needs his ugly sleep.

Into the Dragon's lair comes RHM—no, not his right-hand man. This RHM is Reginald Handler Mephistopheles. Think of him as the younger brother to the Dragon, just as ugly but with more human qualities—a beaklike nose, brows that look like a forest of unruly trees, and gnarly, elongated fingernails that resemble the claws of some wild bird. Oh, and a heart so rancid and devoted to his new master that nothing—absolutely nothing—could soften it.

RHM tiptoes into this sleeping chamber, so cold he can see his breath. He stumbles over a weather-beaten rug (which has bits of rotten flesh and the bones of RHM's predecessor embedded in it) and tries to regain his balance by grabbing a nightstand sporting a crystal vase. Why the Dragon owns a crystal vase we shall have to leave for another time, because at the sound of the crash the old beast awakens, snorting and sniffing and rearing back as if ready to shoot fire.

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty!” RHM says. “Please forgive me.”

“Why do you wake me?” The Dragon's voice booms through the cavernous room like a cannon, a metallic rasp to it as if his vocal chords have been scraped raw.

“There is movement in the King's castle, sire,” RHM says, head down. “Our Stalker said—”

The Dragon sits up, eyes ablaze and snout now inches from his newly appointed helper's face. Even the loyal subjects of a tyrant have trouble hiding their trembling fear, for they never know when they will become the enemy. “Yes?” the Dragon explodes. “The Stalker said what?”

“The King is gone. He slipped into some secret passage, I suppose, and—”

“You suppose?”

“The King gave an order to his soldiers and the Stalker followed them, but when he returned . . .”

The Dragon's gaze darts, red veins bulging, making the thin, black slit at the center of each eye even more menacing. The old beast makes calculations, sifting through the data in his mind until an impish grin creeps across his face. “It has begun. The King has exhausted his men searching for the boy. He himself has spent more time away from the castle than in it the last few years. He's finally given in to the truth.”

RHM rubs greasy hands together. “Which makes him vulnerable, sire.”

The Dragon looks out on a thousand glowing fires, encampments of his sleeping troops. They are always ready for battle or engaged in one. He raises a corner of his lip, showing a tooth so sharp it makes ice picks envious. “This has been my plan all along. Summon the Stalkers. Send them to the four portals and have them report to me immediately.”

“With gladness, sire.”

“Wait!” the Dragon says. “Send one to the castle. Have him look for this book the King has fancied so long.”

The Dragon stands, putting his considerable weight on legs like boulders. He turns to the window overlooking the King's domain and sucks in a breath. “We have waited for this day. The King has made a terrible error, and I will see him in his grave.”

“The Son too?” RHM says.

The Dragon's crusty, coughing laugh would have made you ill. When the rattle stops, the Dragon sneers, “The King has been protected here. When he dies and his Son after him, this realm becomes mine. Three worlds will unite under my rule.” He sweeps an arm toward the window, bidding his aide to look, and the flutter of a webbed wing sends a puff of air toward RHM that would have turned you away, gasping. But the malodorous smell is like perfume to the aide, and he gazes out the window with rapturous delight.

“I have waited for this,” the Dragon says. “All our striving will be worth it when I see the last dying breath of the King. And then they will see what it means to have a ruler. A true king.”

If you were sitting in the small, crowded Briarwood Café on the night our story begins, you might gravitate to where three tables have been pushed together to accommodate high school students having just completed their next-to-last night of the fall musical. Several girls wear long, flowing gowns. The young men wear tennis shoes and sweatpants—they are stagehands and not committed thespians. Their presence at the rehearsals and the play is, in actuality, so they can work with the young females, so you can understand why they are at the restaurant this evening. They are boisterous, excited.

A few families dine amid the din. Some patrons scowl at the noise, but most endure it with good-natured looks.

The stools at the front, the kind you see in old-fashioned diners, are full of weary travelers. Some grimace each time the door opens and a blast of cold air attacks, but the general mood of the place is pleasant.

The boys—the ones in sweatpants and with bad manners—notice the waitress, another classmate, as she scurries back and forth to the kitchen. She's wearing a dark uniform with an apron tied at the front.

“She has the best eyes,” one boy says loud enough so she can hear.

“You're looking at her eyes?” another says, and the group erupts in laughter.

But the first boy is right. Her eyes are the color of the ocean, blue-green pools lost in the inlet of her long dark hair, pulled into a bun. A few strands have come loose and hang across her face. Her eyebrows are dark and finely shaped, and her lips are naturally red, without the aid of lipstick. Her cheeks are plump and full of color, remnants of her childhood, for the rest of her has grown into a young woman. Her name tag says
Clara,
which doesn't seem to fit. (We don't mean to offend you if you happen to be a Clara. The name just doesn't seem right for this girl.) Her last name was Secrest. Clara Secrest.

As the boys continue to whisper among themselves about Clara's looks, the girls appear to try to draw attention back to themselves.

Look carefully now, as we are the only ones who notice the slight boy entering the café, quickly pulling the door closed against the wind. A thoughtful lad, wouldn't you agree? He limps, heading for the small carryout counter.

He looks uncomfortable waiting for service, as if he were somehow intruding on the party. He is hardly striking. His hair is light brown and thick, cut just above the ears with the front a little too short, revealing the indelible marks of adolescence on his forehead. He nervously pats his hair, as if he could make it suddenly grow and cover the red bumps. The boy looks younger than those at the tables and pale, as if he spends most of his time inside. His legs are not long, his hands small and soft.

Other than the limp, nothing would make you notice him, except that is precisely what Clara did as she came out of the kitchen. “I'll be with you in a minute,” she said, carrying hot food.

The boy straightened as if he suffered from some spine ailment. “I'm fine,” he said, his voice cracking. “Take your time.”

Clara smiled, and it was in that instant that she tumbled to the floor, hamburgers sailing, dishes crashing. It was not clear whose feet she had stumbled over, but one of the boys laughed while the rest of the place fell silent.

If you focused on the girl on the floor and the mess she made, you would miss the reaction of the boy at the counter. His face was like some resolute explorer's, unafraid of uncharted waters. “Are you all right?” he said, helping her up.

Clara nodded, then bent to begin picking up the mess.

“What about my burger?” a long-gowned girl said.

A young man with a big chest and a red face asked for a soda refill and handed Clara the glass.

“I'll clean this up,” the boy from the counter said. “Go ahead.”

“I can't let you do that.”

The boy grabbed a wastebasket from the corner. “Really. Go ahead.”

Clara stared at him with those endless ocean eyes and hurried to the kitchen.

“Missed one,” the red-faced boy said, shoving a jagged piece of glass with his foot.

Moments later Clara returned with the drink, a broom, and an update on the burger. “We won't charge you,” she said to Long Gown.

“I should hope not.”

Clara checked out two families at the cash register, retrieved the replacement burger, delivered three checks, and finally reached the carryout counter. “You shouldn't have done that,” she said to the boy. “My boss is mad.”

The boy was lost in her eyes. “Sorry. Just trying to help.” He looked at the menu again.

Allow us to let you in on a little secret no one else—not even the boy's father—knew: he had a special reading ability and had already memorized the menu. That gift put him ahead of everyone else in his class. In fact, many times he had to hold himself back from answering every question after reading a text only once.

“You've been here before, haven't you?” Clara said.

“My father lets me get dessert a couple times a month.”

Clara leaned on the counter and sighed. She had worked a full shift, and though she tried to hide it, she walked as if her feet felt like lead. “You're in my journalism class, right?”

He nodded. “I'm a freshman.”

“Sort of young to be in high school, aren't you?”

“I skipped a grade.” Actually he could have skipped two or three grades had his father allowed it.

Clara squinted. “What's your name?”

“Owen. Owen Reeder.”

Didn't we tell you that you would love him at first sight?

Clara picked up her green pad. “Well, Owen Reeder, thanks for helping me out. Now what can I get you?”

Don't you agree that at this point Owen should have been full of pride and confidence? He may have been shy and timid, but he had helped a damsel in distress and had even held up his end of the conversation with a pretty girl.

But all that was forgotten when the red-faced, big-armed, barrel-chested boy took his foot off a chair and kicked it away, standing as if ready for a duel. “Reeder? Did you just say you're Owen Reeder?”

Owen spun as if about to be hit by a train.

“You're the kid who writes in the paper,” Red Face said.

Owen nodded, but he wanted nothing to do with Red Face. He looked at the menu, then at Clara. “I think I'll have—”

“Know who I am?” Red Face said.

“Sure,” Owen said. “Gordan Kalb. I just did an article on your wrestling—”

Gordan moved like a hungry lion. “You made me look like an idiot in that article.”

Owen didn't know what the wrestler was talking about, but because he was not only a reader of books but also attuned to danger, Owen knew it was time to leave.

Owen had read that if a person concentrated on one spot on the wall and thought of a beach or some peaceful glen, he could shut out pain and fear. He had tried this at the dentist's office and learned that no amount of focusing lessened the pain of an impacted molar, let alone having Gordan Kalb separate his head from his neck.