The Book of the King (20 page)

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 the 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.

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.