The Sword of the Wormling (2 page)

Had Owen known what was about to occur, both with the three who approached from below and the onslaught that would come from above, he would have sounded an alarm, gathered his book (and the pack of food carefully prepared for his journey), set off through the tangle of vines and junglelike forest, and let Watcher find him with her heightened senses.

But Owen did not leave, did not gather the precious book given to him by a strange man in the other world, a man with weird clothes and eyes every bit as fierce as those he had seen in these people. Something about the man had caused Owen to trust him almost immediately, so when the winged beast had plunged toward them and blown its fiery breath, Owen had feared losing the man more than dying himself (though, of course, he feared that too).

Owen turned at the sound of a door slamming. Two of the hooded figures stood on Bardig's ramshackle porch, their faces shrouded.

A whoop came from inside, where the third figure had to be, and Owen quickly made his way back down. It was Bardig's wife who cried, keening—half wail, half sob, all pain.

“What's wrong?” Owen called, but the hooded figures did not turn.

Owen ran to a window in time to see the third hooded figure stand before Bardig's wife and remove his hood. He was a younger, slimmer Bardig!

“I came as soon as I heard,” the man said. “Word travels slowly.”

“Oh, Connor!” Bardig's wife cried, clinging to him like a vine to a rock wall. “You shouldn't have come. You know it is forbidden.”

“The rules of the evil one mean nothing to me. I should never have left you.” He held her tightly, and Owen was warmed by his words.

But there were also whispers in the room. Owen suddenly felt self-conscious, as if the whispers were about him. He was the reason Bardig was dead. Owen and the man's determination to protect him at all costs.

“Is he the one?” Connor said, wet hair hanging before steely eyes.

Owen moved quickly from the window. These people should grieve alone and in peace.

“You!” Connor shouted, bursting onto the porch. “Wormling! Are you such a dog that you would crawl away, afraid to face the son of the man you killed?”

Owen stopped and faced him. “Your father protected me from one who would have taken my life. For that I will be eternally grateful.”

Connor jumped down, his eyes locking on Owen's. “You speak confidently for a boy who killed my father.”

“The beast killed your father. You do him a disservice to say otherwise.”

Connor pushed back his cloak and pulled from his scabbard a large sword. “A true Wormling is fearless, my father always said. A true Wormling would bring healing. You brought death. And this infernal rain.”

“I have no power over the elements, but I am sorry for your loss.”

“You are the
reason
for my loss!”

A crowd gathered behind Connor, people from inside as well as a few who had heard the commotion from the village below. Owen supposed this event was the only real entertainment these people had.

“You will stay and you will fight,” Connor said. “For the honor of my father.”

All the way up the mountain, though it took her half the time it would have taken the quickest human, Watcher muttered about the Wormling and his timid ways. She had hoped for a strong leader, a wise, barrel-chested, fire-in-the-belly type of man who would take on their world the way Mucker had chewed through the miles of dirt and rock to get here. Instead, they had been sent a shy and hesitant Wormling, more of a schoolboy than a fighter, a milk-fed kitten rather than a lion.

Her best friend in the world had been Bardig, so it is no surprise that she would speak to him, even though she knew he was dead.

“I don't understand it,” she said, looking to the heavens. “All the things you told me made me think the Wormling would be different. He seems more eager to get back to his own world than to save ours. He has to have an older brother or even a sister who is stronger. Why couldn't they have been sent?”

She scuttled up the mountain, grabbing at saplings and rocks to propel her. Strangely, the farther she got, the softer the ground became. Her small padded hooves left footprints much deeper than she was accustomed to, and she was glad to get to the stony ledge that led to the mouth of the lake. From there she could usually look out on the lush valley, green and flowering, the trees rising before her. The ground was so steep she could almost step out and walk on them. But today, with the clouds and a mist so thick it hung like sackcloth over the water, it was all she could do to even see the path that led around the lake.

“Why would such a weak, hapless human be sent to a place like this when what we need—?”

Like a whisper on the wind, a voice pricked Watcher's ears. “He is the one. Listen to him. Help him.”

It was not Bardig's voice, though it could have been. He had said the same thing to Watcher moments before he had been killed by Dreadwart. Bardig had been convinced that though Owen was small in stature, he was bigger in heart than most warriors in the Lowlands.

Watcher's eyes darted. “How can I help someone I don't believe is worthy to be called Wormling?”

The voice didn't answer.

With her next step, Watcher's breath was sucked away. Her hoof sank a few inches in the trail along the crater lake. The rain had forced small gullies in the bank to sweep down the mountain. The lake had risen to within a few feet of the top of the crater, and the softness of the embankment led Watcher to believe the village didn't have much time to prepare.

“Warn them,” the voice whispered. “Tell them to leave now.”

It is difficult to tell where a person is going until you understand where that person has been.

Owen had read that in
The Book of the King
, but it hadn't dawned on him until now, looking at Connor's gleaming sword (yes, it gleamed even though it was cloudy and rainy, a sure sign it was sharp and well cared for). Why had Connor moved so far from his family? Why hadn't he attended his own father's funeral?

“You must be suffering over your father,” Owen said haltingly. “I am too. I don't want to fight you. He was my friend—”

“Whether you
want
to fight is not the question. The question is,
will
you fight when I raise my sword?”

“I'm unarmed,” Owen said, holding out his hands.

“My father said the coming Wormling would be a strong warrior,” Connor said, circling Owen. “All his life he clung to that hope. I hung on to that story until I grew old enough to realize it was a fable. And now you come, filling people's minds with talk of a book and a prophecy.”

“I didn't ask to come here. I didn't want to be a Wormling.”

“So you're on
our
side then and not on the side of the Dragon?”

“The Dragon came after me in the other world—”

“And you bowed to it and worshipped it, didn't you?”

“No! I would never bow to the Dragon. Only to the true King and his Son. That's why I've come, to search out the Son so that—”

“He can lead us in revolt against the Dragon and unify the two worlds—yes, I know. I heard it my whole life until I grew weary of all the talk. And then I decided to do something. We have an army.” Connor threw his head back. “We have begun our own rebellion against the Dragon.”

Some in the crowd gasped and stepped back. Owen saw a few old men in tears. Mothers pulled children close and covered their heads with kisses.

“If you are a true Wormling, if you are the one my father spoke of, you will have no problem joining us. Get your things. Take up your weapons and follow.”

Owen stared at Connor's fiery eyes. He took a breath, unable to shake the thought of all these people listening and watching. He thought about the speech he was supposed to give in class—how frightened he had been. Compared to this, the speech was child's play, though the thought stirred something old in him.

“You cannot fight this enemy with conventional weapons,” Owen said. “Even if you had all the swords and spears in the land and all the courage you could muster, this will require more.”

“Why do you let this dog speak to you?” one of the hooded men spat. “If he won't fight with us, he's against us. Kill him.”

“I'm not against you,” Owen said. “I'm for the King and his Son. The Dragon will be defeated but not this way. Not your way.” He looked toward the hill where they had buried Bardig. “Not at such a cost.”

“Why can't we fight?” Connor said. “What is your battle plan?”

“The book,” Owen said. “It was given to me by Mr. Page, and I used it to follow Mucker to this world.”

“He's brought death to us,” a woman called.

Others agreed.

Connor waved his sword, as if slicing the Dragon in two. “Let him fight with his book then. I will use my sword, and we will see which of us has the better plan.”

A man ran from Bardig's house holding
The Book of the King
above his head. “I found it in his pack!”

“Connor, don't do this,” his mother begged.

Connor's eyes were locked on Owen's. “Stay out of this, Mother. We will teach the Wormling a lesson he can't read in any book.” He caught the book with one hand, then flipped it to Owen. “Fight!”

Connor thrust his sword straight at Owen's heart, but Owen thrust the book in front of him at the last second, absorbing the razor-sharp tip. It slid between his fingers and sank two inches, slicing through the animal-skin cover and all the way to the first few pages. Owen gasped, wondering if Mucker (who had returned to his normal size) might have been hurt. Connor yanked and yanked, with Owen holding fiercely, being pulled about the mud-splattered yard in an awkward dance. Connor finally worked the sword free, raising it over his head as Owen toppled in the mud.

“Stop!” came a scream from above.

Connor's two hooded compatriots rushed to their leader's side, brandishing their own swords.

Watcher rushed down the mountain, the hair on her face pressed back as she ran, mouth agape, tongue lolling. Owen could not imagine a more beautiful sight—not that Watcher was beautiful, though to her kind she probably was, but the sight of a friend running toward him made his heart leap.

“Run!” she yelled. “The lake is about to overflow!”

Connor scowled. “Overflow?”

“Watcher is in league with the Wormling,” someone said. “Don't trust her.”

“The lake has never overflowed!” someone else shouted.

“She's just trying to save her precious Wormling.”

Watcher pulled to a stop, gasping, hooves caked with muck. “The trail around the lake—it's usually hard. You can find rocks to skip. Now the trail is spongy and soft. It can't hold much longer. We're in danger—and the villages below. We must ring the warning bell.”

Connor stepped up and held his sword to Watcher's throat. “Swear on your life that this is true, halfling.”

She glared, a fire as intense as Owen had ever seen, and pushed the sword away with a hoof. “I don't have to swear to you or anyone. A wall of water, millions of buckets full, is ready to crash through here. If you won't do anything about it, I will.”

Several in the crowd ran for their homes as Watcher helped Owen up.

He cradled the book. “Get the scroll. I'll ring the bell.” High in a tree in the middle of the village, in a twist of gnarled branches, hung a bell that had once sat atop the school building in town. After Dreadwart had destroyed the building, the men of the village hauled the bell to the strongest tree in the square. “How many times should I ring it?”

“As many as you can before the water comes,” Watcher said.

Connor raised his sword to Owen. “Not so fast, Wormling. You might fool others here but not me. Now we fight.”

Owen faced Connor, speaking quickly. “Your father cared for these people. Fight for them and their freedom. Protect them, and let me do what I must!”

A hooded one blocked Owen's way.

Owen glanced at the tree and the bell swinging in the cold rain and wind.

Watcher turned, ears trembling, face twisted. “Invisibles!”