The Book of the King (22 page)

“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!”

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.

“Leave him to fend for himself!” another cried.

“If he killed our King, he should be punished!”

“If he is a true Wormling, can't he defeat this enemy?”

Bardig's voice carried to the monster and beyond. “Who among you can tell me one time when we've been told the truth by the Dragon or any of the council? Who among you believes our King is dead? Or that the Wormling killed him?”

“Who is this commoner?” Dreadwart growled.

“We are not many,” Bardig said, “and we are weak. But we have truth on our side. And we have the book.”

“The book?” Dreadwart stepped forward. “Give it to me!”

Hope surged through Owen. If Bardig could convince the others to stand their ground and face this enemy, they had a chance.

“Give him the book!” someone said.

“Yes, give it to him!”

“Will you spare the Wormling if he gives up the book?” another said.

“No! Deliver them both to me, and I guarantee the council will reward you. Land, property, livestock. And—”

Suddenly, Owen found his voice. The boy too afraid to speak at school decided that with lives on the line—including his own—he had to be heard. But he didn't choose his own words; he repeated some that he had read from
The Book of the King
. “‘Live at peace with all as much as it is within you. Give no one reason to slander your name or accuse you. But know that some will falsely accuse you and say all manner of evil things against you because you are related to the King.'”

The villagers stared at him, and while he felt exposed, almost as if standing naked before them, he somehow felt stronger.

“When the enemy comes,” Owen said, “spouting lies and threatening, turn him back with these words, gaining momentum and volume. Say to him, ‘The King commands you!'”

All eyes seemed to turn from Owen to Dreadwart, and on the faces of the Lowlanders came looks of expectation, hope, as if they believed that by simply repeating those words they could cause the terrible beast to burst into flames and disintegrate into dust that would blow away in the wind. Then they would dance, free and jubilant.

But no one spoke.

Dreadwart pawed the ground, snorting, then charged the villagers.

With Watcher pulling at his sleeve, Owen and the rest did the only thing brave people do when confronted by overwhelming evil and strength.

They ran.

They ran for trees that could not possibly protect them.

They ran past rocks and jumped streams where Dreadwart could not possibly miss them.

They ran thinking of nothing but survival, some carrying children, some hanging on to strips of clothing as their children pulled them.

Watcher grabbed Owen's sleeve, and the two hustled up the steep slope toward the newly dug cave. Did Watcher know some secret passage? Or did she have a plan to defeat this monster?

Owen turned to see the only one who had stood his ground, planting himself like a tree in Dreadwart's path. Owen whirled Watcher around to point out Bardig, standing there with the giant sword that looked like a toothpick in the face of the great snorting, charging demon bull. The beefy man deftly stepped aside as the bull ran past him and stopped.

“Prepare to die, Lowlander!” Dreadwart roared.

“Come, Watcher,” Owen said, scrambling up the mountain. “He's buying us time.”

Bardig wounded the bull, striking him across one eye. Dreadwart screamed and rubbed his face in the dirt. Bardig advanced on the beast again. It rose just as he reached it, and the tip of a horn pierced the man and sent him flying. With Bardig lying still and bleeding, Dreadwart turned to pursue Owen and Watcher, leaving a path of destruction on the hillside, mauling trees and people. But he did not slow to finish off any of them. Apparently only the Wormling was on his mind.

Some tried to roll stones down toward Dreadwart, and they bounced and picked up speed as they cascaded. But he sidestepped them like pebbles and seemed only to gain more resolve.

Owen pulled Watcher to the entrance of the tunnel.

“He knows where we are, Wormling,” Watcher said, disdain in her voice. “This is a dead end.”

Dreadwart bellowed, “I will kill you, Wormling! And I will breach the lake and send a flood upon the Lowlanders!”

“Leave me, Watcher!” Owen said. “Get as many to safety as you can!” When she hesitated, he pushed her out of the cave.

Owen turned to the book and began to read aloud. This was his strength, and it had brought him this far. If the last thing he did with his life was read the book until Dreadwart attacked, so be it.

Fear does not live where love exists.

Love always gives, always has hope, and believes the best.

Love never fails.

Dreadwart reached the Marking Tree and, with a mighty heave of his tail, severed it in two, the top cracking and tumbling toward the village. “The day of the Wormling is over!” he howled, muscles tight, poised to leap toward Owen.

But something was different about the Marking Tree, other than the fact that it had been rent in two, and Owen couldn't figure out what it was.

Dreadwart sprang, his discolored tiger's teeth bared, his murderous tail swishing, and the spikes on his back aimed at Owen's heart.

Owen stood holding
The Book of the King,
fully expecting to be devoured, when Mucker sprang from behind a row of bushes and caught Dreadwart by the neck, chomping with what was left of his teeth and sending the beast to the ground. Dust flew and rocks rolled and the huge tail lashed, swinging and cutting. Owen had never seen such a terrible fight, and he knew the book had awakened Mucker, had prepared him for this moment.

When the squealing and the ruckus ceased, Owen made his way down the incline to where Dreadwart lay, bloody and headless. Mucker sat cut and battered but alive.

Owen fell on the worm's neck, overcome with emotion.

* * *

Owen found Watcher kneeling by Bardig, his wife cradling his head in her lap, weeping, gently brushing the hair from his face. Blood stained the man's shirt, and his legs lay at weird angles.

“You were the bravest of all,” Owen managed. “You stood up to him, though your weapon was no match.”

“Our weapons are the very words of your book,” Bardig rasped. “May the weapons formed against you fail, Wormling. Be faithful in the smallest of things, and you shall see greater things than these.” And he closed his eyes.

On a hill far away, under a fresh blanket of dirt and stone, they laid Bardig and others taken by Dreadwart's charge. Bardig's wife asked Owen to read from the book.

A brother is born to walk with you through difficult times, but there is a friend even closer and more faithful than a brother.

Late that day the sun set orange and red and purple on the Valley of Shoam.

Life, dear reader, is a mixture of sadness and joy and everything in between, but it is what you do with the “in between” that counts. Owen Reeder was beginning to learn this, but just beginning.

We have endeavored to tell you the whole story of his life thus far and will continue with Owen through even bloodier battles and more horrifying figures who seek his life. But for now, we must leave you with the image of Owen placing the book in a hidden spot and retracing his steps to the place the villagers had taken Dreadwart's body. Owen and the recovering Mucker packed the entrance to the cave with dirt and stone so the enemy would not be seen by the flying beings above.

Dreadwart's minions would report what had happened to the council, and its full force would be aimed at Owen. But until then the people of the Lowlands had surprise on their side. And the Wormling.

Owen looked to the hills and vowed, “The Son is out there, and I will find him.”