The Sword of the Wormling (8 page)

I can't wait to wash this smell off,” Watcher said, her nose twitching.

The clay was breaking down, and the odor was getting to Owen too. Even breathing through his mouth didn't help any longer. “You won't dare wash at the water's edge,” he said. “You don't want the Kerrol attacking.”

“Look at the vegetation. Green trees and plants everywhere. There has to be a freshwater source. I'll bet there's a lagoon somewhere on the middle island, if not on all three.”

Owen began to despair. It was not so much the fear of what lay beneath them, though he feared it. They were being driven by some unseen, uncaring force of nature, and even the pack on his back containing
The Book of the King
was of little comfort.

The report of fires on the island gave him hope that Mordecai was indeed there. If they could find him, Owen would offer food as a peace offering. But the Kerrol weighed on Owen's mind now as the sun peaked. Though the water was cold, the sun quickly warmed the skiff and Owen began to sweat, which made the jargid oil smell even worse, if that was possible.

The water level rose as something beneath them drew close to the surface.

He looked back at Watcher. “Do you sense danger?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I sense our stink.”

“No, I mean the rise of the wa—”

Bubbles burst on the surface, and white foam swirled. The skiff ran down a wave, and Owen slid to the edge, barely managing to stay on. Suddenly a being so huge and hideous that Owen could hardly keep his eyes open appeared before them. But how could he not look? He had to know what was surely about to take both their lives.

Only once before had Owen's breath been taken from him so forcefully. It was the moment he had been saved from certain death by an arm in the night, when the step he had taken should have been his last, should have sent him falling to his death back in his hometown.

The sheer size of the talons and teeth of the creature before Owen made him want to jump in the water, if only he could swim. Of course, the thing would have been on him in a flash. The beast had a row of horns atop his head like the spikes on the crown of the Statue of Liberty. But worse was the look on his face. One of intelligence. As if he recognized either Owen or a good meal when he saw one.

The tiny skiff rose on the swell of the ocean, bubbles and foam engulfing Owen and Watcher as a great flood cascaded from the Kerrol.

Watcher moved forward, fighting the slippery tilt of the vessel to get closer to Owen. She emitted a low, guttural growl and clenched her teeth as if about to attack.

Owen turned quickly, stepping between her and the Kerrol. “Stop it!” he hissed. “You're making him even madder!”

“I want that thing to smell us!” she cried. “Come and get your jargid, you slimy beast!”

The Kerrol repositioned himself, clearly eager to enjoy these appetizers on the small plate.

The skiff's deck of saplings was as slick as ice now, and Owen's every step was precarious.

Watcher spread her legs and waited, as if prepared to take on the beast single-hoofedly.

As the Kerrol's colossal mouth opened and he surged toward them, his look suddenly changed from hunger to fear and revulsion, like a kitten catching sight of its first Great Dane. His horns pointed backward, and the scales on his back and sides rose.

Then, strangely graceful for such a massive creature, he closed his mouth and silently allowed himself to slide back beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

Owen fell to his knees, relieved and eager to see where the beast was headed.

Watcher moved to the other side and peered into the clear water.

“He smelled us!” Owen said. “He looked terrified!”

“Shh,” Watcher said, her ears perking. The hair on her back stood.

“What?” Owen said, scanning the sky. “An attack? That's all we need.”

The wind died and the skiff bobbed calmly. Owen spotted the bridge that tied one island to another in the distance. Might Mordecai be watching, even now?

The sky began to darken into indigo—a reddish blue. The water seemed unusually calm as the skiff spun lazily. Owen knew he should be more worried about what might come from the sea than from the sky. He noticed Watcher's hackles go up again as an unearthly breeze kicked up behind them.

They had blown about 20 yards closer to the islands when Owen espied the huge green eyes of the Kerrol as he returned from the depths. When the outline of his body appeared, Owen set himself and held on.

Watcher growled as the water exploded behind them and the Kerrol broke the surface, higher than before as if suspended by some unseen force.

A wave as tall as a building crashed over the skiff and drove it under. Owen held his breath and held on for dear life, seeing Watcher do the same. When the little craft surfaced, the Kerrol lunged at them but again stopped as his hideous nostrils jerked to one side, his face contorted, and he dived back under, his long fin disappearing. In his wake the skiff rose like a surfboard on the crest of a wave.

They flew across the water now, the wind hard at their backs, the skiff high atop the wave and vibrating. The pulse tickled Owen, and Watcher rolled with laughter, kicking, eyes wide, fur flying. As they neared the beach the sun shone on the sand.

Perfect,
Owen thought.
We're headed for a soft landing.

But just like that, the wave pushed them straight toward jagged rocks.

Watcher's laughter turned to shouts. “We have to jump!”

“I can't swim! I'll drown!”

“I'll catch you, Wormling! Jump!”

The island seemed to be racing toward them. Owen glanced back at Watcher and found her kneeling, fear on her face.

“I'm stuck! Go ahead and I'll catch up.”

No way would Owen leave her. First, she was the best friend he had ever had. Second, he couldn't survive without her. Without another thought he lurched to her and tried to pry her hoof from the saplings. Watcher yelped. She was stuck solid.

Owen crawled to the back of the skiff and tugged an oar from its bindings.

“Hurry, Wormling!” Watcher yelled.

Owen pulled himself forward with the oar as the Kerrol surfaced again and just as quickly retreated, sending another wave over them.

Owen jammed the oar through the opening ahead of Watcher's paw and forced it down inside the hole. That separated the saplings just enough for her hoof to pop out, and she stumbled backward. Owen lunged for her, and they both slid into the churning water headed for the rocks.

Owen awoke on the beach to the taste of salt. The clouds had mostly disappeared, but he saw lightning in the distance.

He rolled over, his backpack shifting, and vomited. Wiping his mouth as the surf crashed against the rocks, Owen felt for the book and the vial of jargid oil. Still there. His food was wet and salty but edible. He sat up. No open wounds. No broken bones. He felt, however, as if he'd been through an entire washing-machine cycle.

Among the jagged rocks lay what was left of the skiff—saplings floating in the foam.

Not far away, Watcher sprawled on the beach, her fur waterlogged, one eye open, staring. Owen rushed to her, fearing she was gone, but when he touched her shoulder, her eyes rolled back and she quickly stood.

“I can't believe you made it,” she said. “You were under a long time.”

“How did we miss the rocks?”

“I steered you away and tried to drag you here. That's the last I remember.”

Owen sat, shaking his head. “You saved my life. Again.”

“Wormling, you don't have to do everything. I think that's why I was put with you. To help.”

“What if I'd left you back there?” Owen said. “You'd have drowned, and I'd have smashed against the rocks like the skiff. My arms would be over there, and my head would be in some lagoon.”

“We need each other,” she said simply, shaking the sand from her fur. “Night is coming. We should find shelter.”

A few hundred yards into the forest they found a grove of date palm trees and plenty of other fruit. Watcher hurried off while Owen gathered wood.

She returned a few minutes later looking refreshed. “There is freshwater that way. You can wash there and get a drink.”

Though exhausted, Owen felt almost giddy from having escaped the Kerrol and the rocks. He slaked his thirst and bathed, then headed back to the shore, where he gathered oysters and found flintlike rocks he knew would create a spark. Watcher brought dried grass in her teeth, and they started a fire.

As the flames grew and danced, they roasted oysters in the coals, listening to them pop and sizzle. Watcher said she had always wanted to try them. She enjoyed them, and Owen was surprised anew at how real hunger could make almost anything delicious.

When they had eaten, they stretched out by the fire, staring at the night sky. The stars were more brilliant here than Owen could remember at home.

Something streaked across the sky, and Watcher gasped. “A fire star. Bad luck.”

“It's just a meteor,” Owen said. “A tiny piece of some planet that died years ago.”

Watcher stared at him. “How do you know this?”

“You learn all kinds of stuff like that in school. Did you know you can actually travel, using the stars to guide you?”

“You learn this from books?”

He nodded.

“Where does the meteor go?” Watcher said.

“It just burns out.” Owen suddenly realized the meteor was a lot like him—on a journey, his fire quickly fading, unable to figure out where to go.

Watcher sighed. “I think I would like your world, with its books and teachers and learning.”

“You'd like some of it.”

They fell silent, Owen lulled by the sound of the water lapping the shore.

“What are you thinking about?” Watcher said finally.

“The people of the Badlands. And the King's Son. Maybe that's his prison.”

“He could be a thousand different places,” Watcher said. “You'll know more after the initiation.”

“If we can find this Mordecai.”

Watcher looked as if she was about to drift off.

Owen heard animals skittering between the trees, insects calling from the dense foliage, the surf pounding the rocks, and a gentle breeze moving palm fronds. Beautiful and peaceful as it seemed, could Owen be any farther from home? And could they be in any more trouble than to be on a remote island without a boat?

Owen awoke to a thud in the sand next to his head. He sat up quickly to see a patch of loosened sand where Watcher had slept, but she was gone.

Thud!

Owen dived behind a bush. He heard laughter overhead.

“I thought you were going to sleep all morning,” Watcher said.

He looked up to find her high in a swaying tree, kicking at another coconut. “Watch out! Here it comes! Hey, you should have seen the sunrise from here! Beautiful. I've never seen anything like it.”

When she climbed down they broke open the coconuts and roasted the white meat but spilled most of the milk trying to drink it.

Owen led Watcher to where he had found the oysters. Small animals ran from the area, leaving footprints of several species.

Back at the freshwater lagoon, a waterfall was surrounded by all kinds of plants. It reminded Owen of the lagoon Robert Louis Stevenson had written about in
Treasure Island
.

Watcher cocked her head and pointed. “These weren't here last night.”

In the sand near the waterfall were human footprints, twice the size of Owen's.

“Is this Mordecai a giant?” he said, realizing that whether they were Mordecai's prints or not, he and Watcher were definitely not alone on the island.

“Haven't heard that,” Watcher said. “Maybe he just has big feet.”

A few yards away they found tattered socks. They ran back and covered their campfire and buried the oyster shells and coconuts to remove any trace of their presence. Then they found the footprints again and followed them up the hill by the waterfall to a small pond.

There they lost the trail, then picked it up again on a ridge leading around the northern side of the mountain. The path was only a foot wide in places, and though Watcher had no problem, Owen couldn't help but look down and imagine what might happen if he fell. A vivid imagination was one of Owen's strengths, and sometimes it allowed him to imagine the worst. He could just see his body—or what was left of it—on the rocky shoreline, now free of the jargid oil. There the Kerrol would find him and roast him on a spit.

“You coming?” Watcher said as he lagged.

Working their way along the well-worn path, Watcher paused to examine a footprint, but Owen knew she was just letting him catch up. When they came to a huge rock jutting out, they stepped behind it to rest. From there they could see the southern tip of the island, the makeshift bridge across the water, and the beach stretching out before them like a black stripe.

“I wish Bardig could see this,” Watcher said breathlessly.

“Maybe he can.” Owen smelled smoke and heard something that caused him to look up. There, in a rocky crag, lay a cave surrounded by weird-looking trees, almost like the bonsai trees in Mrs. Rothem's classroom. Hanging from one of the trees was a rope of sorts, several inches in diameter, which had been fashioned by twisting several vines into one. It looked like it could bear a thousand pounds.

“We've got to find out who's up there,” Owen said.

“The only way up is the grapevine,” Watcher said. “You ready?”

Owen nodded, but before he could move he heard a grunt and a carcass flew out the mouth of the cave, shot past them, and fell on the beach. All he could tell was that it was bloody and had very little meat left on its bones.

Watcher winked at Owen. “Whoever or whatever lives up there shouldn't be hungry at least.”

“Comforting,” Owen whispered.

Watcher climbed behind him, suggesting places for Owen to step. It was slow going, but he held tightly to the grapevine and tried not to look down. About 10 feet from the ledge leading to the cave, Owen sent a loose rock skittering down the slope. No sooner had he looked down to watch it than his head spun at how high he was. His arms ached, his hands trembled, and his legs felt like rubber bands.

“Just a little farther, Wormling,” Watcher said. “You can do it.”

He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the goal above. He had taken one more step when something big and hairy emerged from the cave. Two enormous eyes peered over the edge and then disappeared.

“Keep going!” Watcher said.

But as Owen reached hand over hand, he froze when all he could see was an arm the size of a tree trunk with a machete in its hand. It swung toward the grapevine.