The Sword of the Wormling (6 page)

Owen looked back just in time to see a wall of water every bit as tall as the breached lake bearing down on them. No way could they outrun it, but still Watcher ran, Owen hanging on to her fur and being dragged along.

“Find high ground!” Owen yelled.

When they reached a widening in the canyon, Watcher shook Owen free and jumped, climbing the wall.

He followed, scrambling to reach a ledge just as the water engulfed them. It was freezing and made Owen feel as if he were standing in the foam of a milk shake.

“Flash flood,” Watcher panted. “They can come out of nowhere, and the water is channeled through the gorge.”

A steady current flowed a few feet below them, but it was slowly rising. “No wonder the walls are so smooth,” Owen hollered over the din. “We need to go higher.”

Watcher was easily the more adept climber, making footholds of just about any spot on the rocks. Owen did his best to stay close, but the water was rising faster than they were, and the current was so swift he had no doubt they could be swept into a wall and smashed like pumpkins at any moment.

The water had reached their knees when Owen spotted a ledge above with a deep darkness behind it. “Cave!”

“A cave won't save us from this!” Watcher shouted.

They pulled themselves up onto a ledge, just above the waterline, and Owen saw fear in Watcher's face.

“We're going to be all right,” he said, trying to believe it himself. Had the music stopped? All he could hear were the rush of water and claps of thunder.

The cavern was eerie—barely light enough to see the white foam ascending toward them. The sheer walls rose hundreds of feet, but their smoothness made climbing impossible.

Lightning struck above them, and thunder immediately roared off the rocks. In that instant, Owen spied a solitary figure on the ledge above them, poised to shoot a sharp arrow directly at him.

“Stop!” Watcher shouted. “We mean you no harm.”

“Go back the way you came!” The voice was raspy and high, Munchkinlike but menacing. “You're not welcome!”

“We can't go back!” Owen called. “We'll be killed!”

“Come farther and you shall surely die!” The being waved to call forth 10 more like him from the shadows, bows and arrows poised.

The water covered Owen's feet now, and he struggled for a grip on the smooth rock until his fingers ached.

“Please!” Watcher said. “We're headed to the islands of Mirantha! We won't bother you! We just need high ground!”

“What is your business on the islands?”

Successive flashes of lightning allowed Owen to study the man. A mere four feet tall at best, he had silky brown hair that hung straight to his shoulders, and his eyes were dark slits in the matted fur of his face. A black pug nose pushed his cheeks back, and in the tangle of whiskers sat a mouth more human than Watcher's, with cherry lips. His long ears hung from the top of his head. He wore a tight-fitting coat that looked like camel hair and heavy pants that came to the tops of furry boots.

“What do we do, Watcher?” Owen whispered.

Watcher raised her chin, facing the tiny leader of the band of archers. She looked and sounded unafraid. “I live high in the Valley of Shoam. Near Mountain Lake.”

“We have heard it is no more,” the being said.

“The demon flyers breached it and flooded our whole valley.”

“Many died?”

“But more escaped.”

“Then what brings you here to face our flood?”

“We didn't know the danger,” Watcher said. “I am taking my friend to the islands.”

“For what purpose?”

Watcher sniffed at the air. “Please, can we at least come up to the dry ledge to speak with you?”

He waved them forward, and as Owen and Watcher carefully crawled onto the ledge, all but the leader stepped backward.

“I'm taking the Wormling to meet with—”

At the word
Wormling
, the leader's eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee. The others followed, emitting a strange hum.

“—someone for an initiation ceremony.”

“Forgive us,” the leader said, peeking at Owen. “Why didn't you tell us you were the Wormling? News of your arrival has spread through the land. Come with us before the water covers you.”

He led them to rough-hewn steps that went straight up. Bowing from the waist and motioning Watcher and Owen to go first, he said, “I am Erol. Welcome, Wormling.”

They reached the next level, with Erol and his charges right behind, just as a new wave hurtled through, flooding the cave below.

“Don't worry,” Erol said. “The water has never reached the top cave. You will be safe.”

“How many caves do you have?” Owen said.

The group chuckled, and Erol put a hand to his chin. “We recently counted more than 300. Most are single dwellings and difficult to get to, but many, like this one, are accessible through our vast series of tunnels.”

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Owen was stunned to find a cozy retreat with a fire in a hearth. Erol pointed Owen and Watcher to chairs before a stone table bearing a large bowl of fruit. They ate hungrily. Owen could hear the roar of the water as it coursed through the canyon, but he felt safe and warm. He awkwardly leaped to his feet when a woman delivered steaming drinks, and Erol introduced her as his wife, Kimshi.

“Meet the Wormling we've heard so much about,” Erol said.

Kimshi covered her mouth and backed away, bowing. “What we have is yours.”

Erol gathered in his wife and stood with his arm around her. “Excuse our surprise, but of course we've never had a Wormling in our midst. Please sit.”

“If you don't mind my asking,” Owen said, sitting again, “what sort of beings are you?”

The room grew quiet, and Watcher cleared her throat.

“I didn't mean to offend. It's just that I've never seen . . . I mean, just like you haven't seen a Wormling, I've never seen anything quite like you.”

“We should play it for him,” one of the creatures whispered.

“Quiet,” another said.

“We are musicians,” Erol said. “Even though it is forbidden by the Dragon, we make music.”

“Are we safe from being heard?” Owen said.

Erol cocked his head. “Never completely, but we have sentries on the ridgeline. That's how we knew you were coming.”

Several of the creatures left and returned with bells, tambourines, shakers, stringed instruments, and what appeared to be flutes or recorders made from some exotic shiny redwood. Three carried drums around their necks with leather belts holding them in place.

Erol took one of the stringed instruments and tuned it. A rush of discordant sound filled the room as the others tried to tune to his instrument. Finally Erol bowed slightly and said, “For your enjoyment, a song written by my wife.”

Owen liked all types of music, but what he heard in the cave that night was the most original, most joyous he had ever experienced. The delight on the musicians' faces made plain that they were doing what they were created to do. And when Erol began to sing, Owen thought his heart would burst. Watcher's eyes filled.

“Waiting, watching, wondering,

A stirring from our King.

When will he come?

Winter? Spring?

The signs all around.

“I hear the future.

I feel the past.

I see light from a distant star.

It could be today or ten thousand years.

We wait for you, Wormling.

We wait for you, Wormling.”

That night Owen was escorted through a series of tunnels and stairs to the deepest part of the caves, where a guest room had been set aside for royalty.

“We have entertained visitors of importance before,” Erol said, “but we have never been this excited.”

“Thank you,” Owen said. “And my friend . . . ?”

“She has a room of her own, and Kimshi will see to her needs.”

A gaggle of tiny children had followed Erol and Owen and now stood pointing and whispering and tittering.

“Don't stare, children,” Erol said.

“It's all right,” Owen said. “They've never seen a Wormling, and I've never seen their kind.”

He smiled and motioned them forward, and they came running to his side, giggling and gawking. Owen picked up the smallest girl, and her eyes grew big when he hoisted her almost to the ceiling.

“Are you really a Wormling?” an older boy said, sniffling and rubbing his nose.

“So I'm told.”

“But did you come through the earth, following the chomper?”

Owen nodded. “What's your name?”

“Starbuck,” he said, beaming.

“Well, Starbuck, would you like to see him? hold him?”

“Could I?”

The children looked at one another, mouths wide, squealing.

Owen pulled the book from his pack, and everyone gasped. “This is Mucker,” he said, exposing the tiny worm to the torchlight.

Mucker seemed to roll his eyes at Owen, clearly having just awakened and not in the mood.

Starbuck carefully examined him, tickling his cheek to try to see his teeth.

Mucker looked at Owen pleadingly.

“He's a bit shy right now. Let's let him go back to sleep.” As Owen put the worm away, he described how big Mucker had become, and the children looked incredulous.

“I wish I could be a Wormling,” Starbuck said.

“Maybe if things go well,” Owen said, “there won't be need for another.”

“We must let our guest get some rest,” Erol said. “Come, children.”

The kids groaned, and Owen had to shake each one's hand. Then several wanted hugs, which made the first few envious and they had to return for hugs too. Owen laughed and ate up the attention. Starbuck tried to linger, but Erol yanked his ear and told him to get to bed.

When the children were gone, Owen asked Erol if he would like to see
The Book of the King
.

“Would it be permitted? I don't want to overstep.”

Owen pulled the book from his pack again.

“My thanksgiving to you, sire.”

“Please call me Owen.”

“I could never.”

“I insist.”

Erol took the book and opened it carefully, running his fingers over the ornate lettering. “We have a song about the book we'll have to sing before you leave.”

“How do you remember your songs?”

“Some are passed down from our forebearers. And of course we invent new ones too, but none of us read or write. You could say they are written on our hearts.”

“Would you like to hear some of what the book has to say?”

“Oh! Could I?”

As Owen read, Erol closed his eyes and seemed to breathe in the text, its very language appearing to transport him. When Owen stopped, Erol wiped away a tear. “I could write a thousand songs just about what you have read. Imagine the songs my people could sing if we could read.”

“One day you will, Erol. The Dragon will be defeated, and his curse will be lifted. All the land will read and sing and rejoice.”

“Oh, how I long for that day.”

Finally Owen was alone in the secluded room at the back of the cave. The bed consisted of a huge sack filled with straw that smelled like a fresh hayfield. What a luxury after having slept on the ground for days!

But even after settling into the deep softness, Owen couldn't sleep and found himself listening to the receding water. He tried recalling all the hills and valleys he and Watcher had traversed, but still sleep eluded him. Rising quietly, he climbed into the antechamber above, past the room of the snoring and snorting Erol and Kimshi, and found the ladder to a hole in the ceiling of the cave.

The clouds had retreated, and a billion stars twinkled from the dark sky. The moon crested in the distant west, and Owen found a crag where he could sit and study the land. No way could he and Watcher climb here and walk to the shore. One wrong step and it was hundreds of feet to the bottom.

“A thousand pardons, Wormling,” Erol said, padding out and sitting next to him. He yawned and stretched. “Something on your mind?”

Owen pointed. “The Badlands. Watcher sensed invisibles there.”

“Demon flyers.”

“She says they are herders, but herders of what?”

“Your kind,” Erol said, stroking his hairy face. “Humans. Sometimes we can see them with the viewing circle.” He held out his hands, shaping what it looked like, and Owen guessed it was a telescope.

“What do you see?” Owen asked.

“Smoke from campfires in the night. Lines of beings moving in the early light to underground entrances.”

“Caves?”

“Mines. Because the people are evenly spaced, Kimshi believes they may be chained together. It seems a good theory.”

“What would they be mining?”

“Whatever the Dragon requires,” Erol said. “We have seen sparkling piles on the ground there. In the middle of the day, when the temperature becomes unbearable, vapors rise from the desert floor, and it's like looking into a furnace.”

“Why would the Dragon need minerals from underground?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps it's fuel for the fires of his thousands of encampments.”

“Those people must be miserable,” Owen said.

“I don't see how anyone can live in such heat, let alone work in it.”

“Have you ventured there? tried to help them?”

Erol sighed. “It is all we can do to stay safe here, given our size and the dangers. The young ones sometimes yearn to leave. Starbuck has been after me to let them go on a camping trip. We can't let them because they're no match for the demon flyers. But we did let them go on a picnic.”

A lump swelled in Owen's throat as he thought of the humans of the Badlands. “There must be something we can do. Even if we tried to communicate that help is on the way.”

“The way to help them, Wormling, is to fulfill your mission. Find the King's Son. When the two worlds are united, the Badlands will be transformed. Doesn't the book prophesy that?”

“It doesn't specifically mention the Badlands—at least, not that I've read so far. But it does say that every low place will be raised, every mountain will descend, and the rough and rugged land will stretch out like a garden and be fertile. Then the inhabitants will no longer live in fear.”

“How wonderful!” Erol said. “To think that this mountain will be leveled and we won't have to live in caves or fear the invisibles or hear their shrieks. Oh, to be able to put down our weapons and take up our instruments!”

Owen and Erol chatted all night, talking of the past, the future, and where the King's Son might be. Just when Owen felt drowsy enough to sleep, the sun emerged over the peaks in the east and took away his breath. Pink and purple clouds filled the horizon, and Erol rose quickly, telling Owen to wait there a moment. As if he could have pulled himself away.

The little creature returned with a crudely fashioned telescope. “Look there—not at the sun but below it.”

Owen pointed the lens, twisting it to bring the scene into focus. Water rippled as it reached the shore, and in the distance three distinct landmasses rose from the sea.

“The islands of Mirantha,” Erol said.

Owen had never seen an ocean except in pictures. The beach looked inviting, and he imagined children building sand castles and teenagers playing volleyball and throwing Frisbees.

“Have you been there?” Owen said, unable to take his eyes from the shore. “Have your children seen it?”

“My children do not know it even exists,” Erol said gravely. “We never mention it in front of them. Starbuck would set out the same day.”

“They would have so much fun.”

“And they would die. If the demon flyers didn't get them, the Kerrol would.”

“Watcher mentioned the Kerrol on our way here but didn't give details. What is it?”

“Your friend told us you survived an attack from a Slimesees. I have never seen one of those, but I have watched the Kerrol ascend from the depths of the waters and leap into the air. It is enormous with hideous teeth and scales. When we sing the song of the Kerrol, the children make us stop. It gives them nightmares. Believe me, no one dares enter those waters.”

“Then how did Mordecai get onto one of the islands?” Owen said.

“I do not know this Mordecai, but we have seen the smoke from strange fires there in the night. We always believed the islands to be deserted and these fires some natural phenomenon. We also believe the Kerrol forages on the beaches for wild hogs and monkeys.”

As the sun rose, vapors lifted from the earth to the north in the Badlands, and Owen turned the scope that way. He saw the beings—slaves?—that hurried in a single line up an incline and disappeared into the mouth of a mine. Nausea attacked and spread through him.

“If you are intent on going to the islands, Wormling, I might be able to help. Some time ago a traveler happened through and stayed with us a few days. Like you he listened to our songs, laughed with us, and ate. He said that one day a Wormling might come this way.”

Owen sat up. “What did he look like?”

“Older. Graying hair. Piercing eyes.”

“Did he carry a book?”

Erol smiled. “He read from it just as you have. We wrote songs about it.”

“What did he read?”

Erol closed his eyes and leaned back, the morning sun illuminating his face.

“Prepare a way. Make straight paths. For the day of relief and rescue is at hand. The Day of the Wormling.”

That had to have been Mr. Page, who had given Owen the book in his own world. “How can you help me?”

Erol signaled for Owen to follow, and they moved back down into the cave. The intoxicating smell of woodsmoke wafted throughout, and Owen saw Kimshi and several other women cooking meat and gigantic eggs—each large enough for a whole family. The tiny children ran through hallways and cavorted on makeshift chin bars suspended from the ceiling.

Erol led Owen down several narrow passageways, through heavy wooden doors he had to unlock with keys strapped to his waist. “No one from the outside has ever been to our innermost chamber. Few even here are allowed. But you are the Wormling.”

Erol pushed open the last heavy door and lit a torch on the wall. The small room was filled with expensive-looking clothing draped over the backs of ornate furniture. Pearl necklaces hung from hooks on the walls, along with scarves and coats. In the corner a metal box bore a small lock. Erol opened it and pulled out a small vial of liquid. “Jargid musk,” he said, popping the cork.

Owen nearly passed out from the smell. It was as strong as a skunk but even worse. Owen coughed. “What's a jargid?” he managed.

“I've never seen one. The man who passed through gave this to me. He said that if a Wormling ever came through headed for the islands, we were to give him this. The smell will keep the Kerrol away.”

“How will Watcher and I survive the smell?”

“You'll hold your nose,” Erol said, clapping Owen on the back. “Something the Kerrol apparently cannot do. The man said he left a skiff at the end of the gorge. Unless the current has destroyed it or the floods have moved it, it'll still be there.”