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The Wormling II: The Sword of the Wormling

Copyright © 2007 by Jerry B. Jenkins. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration © 2007 by Tim Jessell. All rights reserved.

Designed by Ron Kaufmann

Edited by Lorie Popp

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or publisher.

For manufacturing information regarding this product, please call 1-800-323-9400.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jenkins, Jerry B.

The Wormling II : the sword of the Wormling / Jerry B. Jenkins, Chris Fabry.

p. cm.

Summary: Having accepted his role as Wormling, Owen Reeder and his new friends from the Lowlands continue their search for the King’s son while keeping safe from the evil Dragon, in a dangerous attempt to fulfill the prophesy of uniting Owen’s world with the Lowlands.

ISBN 978-1-4143-0156-3 (sc)

[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Good and evil—Fiction. 3. Dragons—Fiction. 4. Fantasy.] I. Fabry, Chris, date. II. Title. III. Title: Wormling two. IV. Title: Sword of the Wormling.

PZ7.J4138Wos 2007

[Fic]—dc22 2006033335

For Brandon and Colin, who love swords

“You can observe a lot just by watching.”

Yogi Berra

“Your heart is free. Have the courage to follow it.”

Malcolm Wallace, Braveheart

Table of Contents

1: Rivulets

2: The Son

3: Whispers on the Wind

4: The Warning

5: Call to Arms

6: The Deluge

7: The Guardian

8: The Aftermath

9: The Journey Begins

10: Questions

11: The Enchantment

12: In a Flash

13: The Viewing Circle

14: To the Islands

15: On the Waves

16: The Two-leg Curse

17: Troubled Waters

18: The Crest of the Wave

19: Shoreline

20: Company

21: Mordecai

22: The Cave

23: Firelight

24: The Lair

25: Genuine Laughter

26: The Sword

27: Dinner and Treasure

28: Watcher’s Quandary

29: Attack

30: Dominoes

31: Swordplay

32: Initiation

33: Leaving Mirantha

34: “May the King Grant It”

35: The Badlands

36: Encampment

37: Skirting Lizards

38: The Queen

39: Escape

40: The Good Heart

41: To the Castle

42: Between the Stones

43: Incoming

44: Searching

45: Life-and-Death Struggle

46: Into the Labyrinth

47: Underwater

48: Dungeon

49: The Plan

50: The Breakout

51: Caught

52: Decisions

53: Viper War

54: Torture

55: The Return

56: The Truth

57: A Meeting of Sinful Minds

About the Authors

Sediment and silt trickled down the sides of Mountain Lake, carried by tiny water rivulets, channels cut into the soft mud—“rain tracks,” as Owen Reeder had called them when he was a child. Days of rain turned the crystal clear lake muddy. Ever since the Wormling had come, gray clouds hovered, angry at the earth.

Such surrounded the gigantic lake at the mountaintop, resulting in a cone of darkness that spread over the land. But that is not to say it rained only there. The Valley of Shoam got its share. In fact, most of the inhabitants of the valley huddled inside their humble dwellings even now as the relentless rain beat on their thatched roofs, invading their cupboards and living rooms, seeping into the walls. Small animals moved on the dense forest floor, looking for some dry place, curling up by the base of a tree or under bushes.

Two droplets fell in tandem, twin tears from a grieving sky, and descended on the valley. If you were inside these droplets—well, you would have to be very tiny—you would pass the tip of the mountain that rises beyond the lake into a sharp, rocky point, then travel down the side to the hole the Mucker had dug to allow the Wormling passage from the Highlands to the Lowlands.

You might land on a pine needle, exploding into several droplets before reaching the ground, or you might fall on a scrumhouse, the small building behind each home known as an outhouse to those in Owen’s world. He had never seen one until he happened on this valley.

Call it fate or happenstance, but these two raindrops that hurtled toward the ground at a frightening rate (and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the speed) separated and remained an arm’s length apart until one landed on the boy we know as Owen and the other on his new friend Watcher.

The former was a young teenager out of his element, out of his comfort zone, with piercing brown eyes and a shock of light brown hair. He was of average height and slight build—which is to say that Owen did not look like the full-armed football players back home but more like a chess-club type. He wore clothes from his world—jeans, a T-shirt, and a backpack—under a cloak the Lowlanders called a tunic, made from the skins of forest animals. He had accepted it as a gift from the woman inside the cottage behind him after her husband, Bardig, had died, a victim of an otherworldly being named Dreadwart, a being Owen could have never even imagined only a few short days before.

The latter was a smaller being, Watcher, whose face looked much like a Yorkshire terrier’s. Let us be clear that Watcher would have been infuriated to know we had compared her to a dog from the Highlands, a dog that, unlike her, can’t speak and walks on four legs. Her eyes were soft and delicate, and when she blinked the water away from her brown-and-blonde matted fur, it made her look sad, as if tears pooled there. But do not be fooled by her cute, gentle appearance, for, as you will see, inside Watcher beats a ferocious heart.

Watcher’s ears made perfect sentinels, listening for anything out of the ordinary: the flap of a wing, the call of some strange animal, or a cry for help. She had been trained since a youngling to be alert to everything around her, and that training had paid off when she had heard the arrival of the Wormling and paved the way for him. But he was not as welcome to the rest in the valley as she wished.

Owen, the Wormling, and Watcher had been together since the passing of Bardig. Owen had wanted to immediately search for the King’s Son, who, it was said, would unite Owen’s world with the Lowlands and everyone would be saved and happy and blah, blah, blah. But with the time of mourning for Bardig and the heavy rains (which had coincidentally come at the same time), Owen had relented and stayed in the small dwelling, sleeping on the back porch while Bardig’s wife and a few townspeople sat inside crying and moaning and trying their best to sing comforting songs.

“Why do they sing so softly?” Owen had said.

“Singing is forbidden,” Watcher said, “along with the reading of books.” She nodded at The Book of the King, Owen’s huge, animal-skinned tome that weighed as much as an old dictionary. “As far as I know, you carry the only book in the entire kingdom.”

The book contained prophecies and stories, most of which Owen did not yet understand. But those weren’t the parts that bothered him. It was the parts he could understand. The book invigorated and unnerved him. It caused his heart to soar at one moment, imbuing him with great courage and mettle, and in the next, it frightened him. It called him higher, gave him purpose, and with its stories made him realize he was not alone, that the world was much bigger than his tiny slice of it. Most chilling to Owen was that he had been given the responsibility of keeping the book and delivering it safely to the King’s Son, who was out there somewhere, even now, in this rain-drenched world.

You might ask why Owen and Watcher were standing outside in the cold, pelting rain. Why would they not gravitate inside near the fire like the others? Well, that’s where they had been, but at the perking of Watcher’s ears they had hurried outside, peering first at the forest, then toward the mountain, then down at the valley.

“Invisibles?” Owen said through chattering teeth.

Watcher shook her head. “A stirring. From the valley.”

Ever since Owen had arrived, he had not moved from this mountainside retreat. He asked about the Lowlands, its regions, what the people did to stay alive, whether they ever went on vacation (to which Watcher had responded with a blank stare), and whether there were other valleys or rivers or even oceans.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Watcher had said, pointing. “Up there. Waiting for you. I’ve heard of all the different places, of course. And, yes, we do have an ocean, and there are islands and a huge river that way. But passage is difficult and dangerous. The town council forbade us long ago from sending a runner, even when there was a death of a family member.”

Owen wiped water from his forehead and turned toward the valley where Watcher looked, sniffing, ears twitching, head cocked.

“Visitors,” she said.

Three hooded figures slogged up the mountain, their boots covered with mud, walking right where only days before Dreadwart had flattened a schoolhouse and trees. Owen had to look away, the fear of that day threatening to return.

“Let’s leave,” Owen said. “Let’s take what Bardig’s wife packed and find the King’s Son.”

“You can’t, Wormling. The initiation—”

“No one here can read the scroll you showed me. I can’t even read it. How are we supposed to go through some ceremony where no one knows what to say?”

“It is required.”

“It’s a ceremony. It means nothing compared to finding the King’s Son so I can—”

“Anger,” Watcher said, nodding toward the three who marched with even more determination up the muddy hillside. “There is rage among these.”

“I don’t care—”

“Perhaps you should.”

“—if someone is mad. I don’t care if people expect me to go through some ritual that proves I’m a real Wormling. It’s not even in the book.”

Watcher narrowed her eyes at him, and the fur beside her mouth drew itself into a knot. “Bardig gave his life to protect you, to keep you from the enemy. He was the one taught in the ways of the Wormling, the only one who still believed you would come.”

“Other than you,” Owen said, calming.

Watcher seemed resolute. “He was clear that when you came—not if but when—the initiation must take place. It is more than just words. It is required. Period. I would think you would be more respectful of the dead and abide by his wishes.”

Owen followed Watcher up the hill to another tree ripped out by its roots. Fresh worms crawled in the moist earth as if even they were looking for a dry place. Small animals scurried, obviously sensing something.

“I can’t be expected to live up to the expectations of people I don’t even know,” Owen said. “They didn’t send me here.”

Watcher turned on him. “Can’t you trust in people who want you to succeed but who know there is more to your quest than simply finding someone and handing him a book?” Her ears twitched again, and her eyes widened. “The animals are telling us something. Danger is near.”

“Another attack?”

“Worse. Much worse.” Watcher loped up the hill as fast as any creature Owen had ever seen. She stopped and turned. “Wait here. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Owen rolled his eyes. He was wet, cold, and eager to be on his way.

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!”

Far above the people and animals and rain-slicked countryside, through the thick clouds and into the next realm, lay the kingdom of the Dragon. Though he transcended the Highlands, the Lowlands, and the dominion invisible to human eyes, he spent much of his time watching and planning how to make people miserable.

Looking out on his regiments of warriors, repulsive creatures with demonic eyes and faces, the Dragon called his aide, RHM or Reginald Handler Mephistopheles. This being, almost as revolting as the Dragon himself, was not only grotesque on the outside with scales, horns, and a stench that made Limburger cheese smell like perfume, but inside he was also equally hideous. Hideous squared. He cared for no being but himself and obeyed the Dragon only because the evil one was more powerful. Though the Dragon had no inkling, RHM had designs on the throne, just as the Dragon coveted the throne of the King.

As for the Dragon, he was not content with subjugating his kingdom’s citizens. No, he longed to rule everyone in every sphere. So great was his concupiscence (a word you would not want to get at a spelling bee that means, among other things, an unusually strong desire) for power that he had lied, stolen, murdered, and even called his underlings bad names before scorching them with the fire that constantly gurgled in his throat. One burp and you were toast.

When RHM arrived, crunching through the leftover bones of charred aides, the Dragon spoke, his back to him. “After the death of Dreadwart, we agreed the best tactic for this Wormling was to allow him access to the Lowlands.”

“Yes, sire. To lull him. Give him a sense of invincibility.”

“It seems to me,” the Dragon rasped, “that the region deserves more punishment than Dreadwart inflicted. They must expect retaliation for the killing of one of my council. Which I anticipated.”

“You knew he would die, sire?”

“I was prepared for it, yes.”

“What do you desire?”

“Send a squadron of demon flyers to the area. Give the inhabitants no warning.”

“Annihilation, sire? Incendiaries?”

“No, no. Not fire. Purge the Valley of Shoam with water. Breach the lake wall. Those who survive will be left with nothing but the memory of what happens to those who cross the council.”

RHM bowed and stepped backward, knowing full well that one order not fully followed would mean his bones taking their place on the Dragon’s floor.

“And one more thing,” the Dragon said, a rattle in his chest. “Send a Stalker with the squadron to bring back news of this book the Wormling possesses.”

“Would you have it stolen, sire?”

“I would have it destroyed but not at the moment. If the Wormling loses the book in the flood, we have him right where we want him. If he keeps it, we’ll follow him on his search for the King’s Son. Until he discovers the truth.”

Watcher disappeared into Bardig’s home, accompanied by the dead man’s wife.

Owen rushed down the hill toward the Bell Tree, aware that Lowlanders were following but not looking back to prove it.

Suddenly horrifying cries filled the skies, cries of war and attack. The air seemed filled with beings, clouds roiling in wind-driven mania.

Owen had seen news footage of tornadoes, but he had never seen anything like this. Like low-flying missiles the invisible army swept through the valley, headed straight for the mountain.

Owen tested the steps on the tree, placed the book on a low-hanging branch, then climbed to the top, grabbing the rope and swinging the bell as fast and as hard as he could. Below him the frightened villagers dashed for their homes, the worst places they could go. Others headed west, through the thick groves of pine to another ridge that overlooked the valley. That was where Owen would run when he had the chance.

Connor stood below him now, brandishing his sword, yelling at him, but the bell drowned most of his words.

Gong! Gong!

“. . . avenge my father . . .”

Gong! Gong!

“. . . cut you down like . . .”

Gong! Gong!

“. . . so come down from . . .”

Gong! Gong!

The last gong was interrupted by a terrific explosion. People on the hill pointed at the lake, where a single half-moon hole had been left by the tail of a flying creature. Water gushed from it. Above them, hissing and screaming, came the chilling cry “For Dreadwart!”

Then another half-moon opened in the crater and more water gushed. The wall of the lake had breached, and the villagers could only watch in horror. Seconds later, another salvo from the demon flyers hit the wall, this time farther down. Waterlogged sludge and mud and rocks and dirt spilled from the side of the mountain in slow motion, sending a deadly cascade toward the trees and houses and animals and people.

Owen had been horrified of a school bully, the Slimesees, the Dragon, and more. But he had never seen anything as intent on destruction as this barreling wall of water.

With a mighty roar, the water crashed through the trees, knocking them down like spilled toothpicks. The water gained momentum, throwing trees into boulders and moving them like toys.

Connor suddenly fell silent, sheathing his sword, gathering his men, and running for the house on the hill. They were running toward the water! Owen yelled at them to run for the ridge, but they either wouldn’t listen or couldn’t hear.

Watcher raced down the hill, the initiation scroll of parchment in her mouth. She made it to the tree just as the water reached the town.

“The book!” Owen yelled, pointing to the lower branch. “Hand it to me!” He looked up as the water slammed into Bardig’s shack, turning it around until the walls collapsed and the cottage became part of the rushing stream.

Watcher kicked the book to Owen as another tree slammed into the Bell Tree with a terrible shudder. Watcher fell into the water. Owen reached desperately for her, but it was no use. His friend paddled as best she could, then slipped under the muddy torrent.

Screams. Terrible screams from above as people on the ridge overlooking the valley called out to friends and family. A woman holding a baby floated by as if on an amusement park ride. A scrumhouse with all four walls intact passed Owen. The water rose so high he could have reached out and touched the building. It soon slammed into a rock and disintegrated.

Though he could not swim, Owen had survived the attack of the Slimesees before arriving in the Lowlands. Now he could think of nothing but staying in the tree and avoiding the gushing rapids, the book in his hands. Surely the lake would drain soon and the deep water would recede. But it appeared as if a giant had come through with a rake and simply wiped the hillside clean of trees and rock. Tons of debris cascaded in the bubbling brown swirl.

Foot by foot the water rose, and the Bell Tree branches swayed, the trunk shuddering and jerking with each unseen underwater bomb—a tree, a boulder, a house.

Owen slipped but regained his grasp, barely holding on to the book. He closed his eyes and begged for help. He remembered the voice that had saved him from the bully’s attack and had spoken about courage. Owen had named him the arm in the night.

No help came.

The tree bent under the weight of the rushing water, snapped somewhere below him, and with a sickening creak, turned like Bardig’s house. It crashed into the murky water with Owen clinging for his life.

Agood emissary does the bidding of his Sovereign without hesitation—not out of fear but out of duty and honor. But standing on the ridge overlooking the violent water, this strange being, unseen to those around him, wondered at the orders tucked tightly in his belt. He had read them countless times in all manner of settings—in the other world outside Tattered Treasures bookstore and at the school, above Mountain Lake as the rains first came, even behind a draped section of the dungeon where he had spoken with the King.

Until the book was lost—until it fell into the hands of the enemy of all souls (which was the plan of the Sovereign)—this being could not intervene in the affairs of the Wormling or any whose fate now hung in the balance. Oh, be assured, he wanted to, but his orders did not permit this.

And he could not, under any circumstance, explain or expound upon why he was shadowing Owen (at some distance, as Watcher was now close to the Wormling). He could only protect the Wormling and the book until the time was right.

In fact, it could be argued that the being had already overstepped his bounds in the school hallway when he assisted Owen in pummeling a group of testosterone-laden teenage boys. But the case could also be made that Owen’s life had been in danger, so intervention was imperative. Plus, that very conflict had set Owen on a path that led to Mr. Page.

As the branch of the Bell Tree Owen clung to dipped toward the water, this invisible being moved effortlessly toward him, hovering, watching, noting the shift and pitch. Watcher had finally resurfaced, coughing and sputtering despite the initiation scroll in her teeth. She had frantically latched onto a rock outcropping with her forelegs and was trying desperately to hang on. But the being’s charge was Owen, and if he had to he would follow the Wormling anywhere—even to the farthest reaches of the Dragon’s realm.

The threat posed by Connor had almost gone unnoticed by the being, because he had been busy guiding Watcher to warn others of the impending flood. But when he saw the sword slice through the book, he nearly jumped to Owen’s rescue. Fortunately the danger had been averted by the young man himself. Though Owen was yet to become even an apprentice, he was learning the ways of the heart.

From overhead came the ghastly cries of the scythe flyers, their huge, moon-shaped tails cutting like sharpened pendulums. Of all the hideous creatures under the Dragon’s control, the guardian being hated this regiment most. The devastation they wrought was ruinous, obliterating every target their leader assigned: town, lake, or living creature. No one could prepare for an attack of such force and reckoning. They could only cower.

Owen’s tree stuck on something and he smiled, breathing again. But just as quickly, the tree broke loose and was swept downstream toward the valley. People floating by grabbed for the branches, but most flew past, caught in the current.

Owen gripped the book with all his strength. Shivering, his head dunking under as the tree rolled, he scrambled to keep the book above water. He rode around the curve of the mountain, dropping into another channel the water had cut into the ground. The guardian cringed when he saw houses strewn about the hillside, people clinging to trees, children stripped bare, shoes and clothes and kitchen utensils and farm equipment hanging eerily in treetops.

Only a hundred yards ahead of Owen lay a precipitous waterfall. The being moved quickly and decisively.

* * *

Owen hung on for dear life as the tree flew along. The rushing water picked up momentum, and the waves cut a relentless path in the ground. Then, as if something in the water had stirred (a Slimesees or a whale catching the tree and moving it against the current), the tree shifted and rode toward the bank of a raging river.

It caught on a mighty oak, and Owen nearly flew off. He clung desperately to his perch and saw Watcher—fur matted, ears wet—struggling against the tide, trying to survive. She swam with hooves outstretched, her head—and the scroll in her mouth—barely above water.

“Watcher!” Owen yelled. “Grab my hand!”

When Owen leaned toward her, she shook her head, as if to protect him. That made him only more determined to reach her, and he leaned farther, supporting himself with his other arm around the book and a sturdy limb. Owen realized he could not reach Watcher, so he wedged the book in the crook of a branch and, with one foot around the sturdy limb, leaned out with both hands.

As Watcher bobbed, Owen grabbed her, cradling her head in both hands. She hooked a foreleg around his arm as a wave crashed, knocking the book into the water. Owen shouted, not just because he had lost the very thing he was supposed to protect, but also because Watcher let go and dropped back into the murky depths.

Without thinking that he did not know how to swim or that he might sink, considering nothing but his friend and the book and the scroll (and Mucker, of course, who was inside the book), Owen plunged in. He struggled to keep his head above water, finally realizing he needed to hold his breath and go along for the ride.

Watcher went under again and resurfaced downstream, near the floating book.

Suddenly a terrible roar met Owen’s ears, as if a million screaming demons lay ahead.

Watcher struggled, then turned and with a hoof lifted something heavy and dripping over her head.

The Book of the King!

Owen slapped the water and laughed, but his joy turned to horror as Watcher rose before him on a wave of unbelievable height and plunged over a cliff. In the next instant Owen was swept up in the wave. At the peak of it, just as he was about to plunge, something caught him—a hand, an arm—and warmth flooded his body as his feet skimmed the surface and he was carried to a flat rock.

Owen crumpled there, shaking his head, spitting water, and straining to look over the precipice for any sign of his friend. The remnants of a house floated past, then plunged over. Owen watched, helpless.

He heard the voice again. “The journey is long, Owen. And a man who finds a friend finds a good thing.”

He recognized the words from the book. As he leaned out, he spotted Watcher on a ledge below, clinging desperately to a tree limb and to the book.

“Watcher! Hold on!” Owen scrambled over the bank to where debris had washed up. He quickly fashioned a coil from tree bark, tied one end to a tree, and yelled to Watcher, “Hang on! I’ll get you out.”

When Owen pulled Watcher from the water and up the falls, she didn’t even look like herself. Her matted coat stuck to her body, making her appear about a third of her size, like a cat that has emerged from a pond, its fur having shrunk.

She nudged the book and the scroll toward Owen with a hoof, thanked him with her eyes, and stumbled into the forest. There she coughed up a sizable amount of water and shook herself, spreading a stream from her fur.

The book was in good shape for having been submerged, and the first thing Owen did was check on Mucker. He seemed fine, even invigorated. The book’s animal-skin covering had protected the pages, and though they were wet, the writing hadn’t faded or smudged.

Owen gathered armloads of wood and started a fire. His backpack had been firmly strapped to him, and inside he found food and brought it to Watcher.

She devoured it, licking her lips and sighing. “How many are dead?”

“I’m not sure yet. Many are meeting on the ridge. Let’s hope the villages heard the warning and made it to high ground.” Owen stirred the fire with a stick as it slowly dried the wood and began roasting it. “Watcher, why could we see Dreadwart but not those monsters that attacked the lake?”

Watcher closed her eyes. “Dreadwart wanted us to see him. He was part of the council. He could have remained invisible, but he knew the sight of him would frighten us even more. Others from the Dragon’s world have the ability to change form and appear as animals or even humans.”

“I think I met one of those.”

“These demon flyers are cloaked with invisibility so they can attack without warning. Others are smaller and can be seen. There are many types. They fill the people with terror.”

“And kill and destroy, just like their leader.”

Watcher nodded.

Owen pulled the parchment from a stick near the fire, where he had placed it to dry. The writing was in script he could not decipher.

Watcher’s ears twitched and she sat up. “Someone’s coming.”

Owen hid the book and the parchment and grabbed a long stick—a crude weapon but better than nothing.

The figure, shrouded in darkness, approached slowly but appeared unafraid. It was Bardig’s wife.

“I hoped I would find you,” she said, appearing ready to drop from fatigue. She handed them some crusts of bread and some fruit, then rubbed her hands over the flames, her eyes heavy. “Connor blames you for what happened. They’re coming for both of you.”

“I can’t believe he survived,” Owen said.

“We tried to warn them,” Watcher said.

“Some listened,” the old woman said. “Most are looking for someone to blame.” The light of the fire danced in her eyes. “You must leave, but I need to tell you something before you go. Bardig and I enjoyed a full life together, and I do not regret one moment of it. He had two goals in life. One was to raise a son who loved the King and would follow him selflessly. And the other was to live long enough to see the Wormling. That was always on his heart. Always a part of his soul. Often on his lips.”

Watcher touched her arm. “He lived to see the fulfillment of the prophecy.”

“Yes. Now, Wormling, your success depends not just on yourself. An army follows a leader because a battle looms, not just for the exercise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You play an important role here, but so do we. It does not surprise me that a Wormling would find himself without honor in the very country he comes to help.”

Owen had read a passage strikingly similar just the night before.

“My son is against you,” she continued. “I hope that will change, and I will try to persuade him, so that when you return with the King’s Son, he will embrace you as a brother rather than an enemy.”

“I’m sure the King’s Son can use a warrior like him to fight the Dragon.”

“It’s impossible to defeat such an enemy,” Watcher said. “You saw what happened today. How do you fight an enemy you can’t see?”

Bardig’s wife smiled sadly. “‘With the truth in your heart that was written long before the Dragon ever drew breath.’ Bardig used to say that.” She tilted her head back as if trying to remember. “He also often said, ‘Greater is the one who creates than the one created. And if he is with us, why do we care who is against us?’”

“I miss him,” Watcher said.

The old woman leaned over and kissed Watcher’s forehead. “I know, child. It will not be easy without him, but what good thing is easy?”

“Where do we go?” Owen said. “Bardig was the only one familiar with the initiation rite.”

“Bardig always said it was imperative that the Wormling be given the initiation exactly as written in the scroll. Evidently this will give you some special power or ability, or perhaps it will reveal some ability you don’t even know you possess.”

“But, please,” Owen said, “hurry. Tell me what you know of the rite itself.”

“Bardig said it was a shame he was the only one left who could perform the initiation—that the only other person who even knew the language was Mordecai.”

“Mordecai?” Watcher said, sitting up straight.

“Yes. The King himself had Mordecai deliver the parchment. This, of course, was before the fire and the attack. It was almost as if he anticipated . . .”

“Who is Mordecai?” Owen said.

Watcher and the woman exchanged glances. “Mordecai was here in our village before his . . . banishment.”

“Banishment,” Watcher said. “You can’t be serious. You say he is in exile. Guilty of high treason.”

“Regardless,” the woman hissed, “you need him. It is the only way. I would never suggest you walk unprotected, let alone to the islands of Mirantha—”

“Islands?” Owen said.

“Not a nice place,” the woman said.

“You’ve been there?” he said.

“I’ve heard.”

“I don’t see what this Mordecai can offer. I just want to find the King’s Son and get back to my world.”

“Be careful to do what the book tells you.”

“The book says nothing about this.”

“Yes, but it is part of what we know to be true. And it comes from the King himself.”

“So this Mordecai delivered the parchment. If he was exiled for treason, we might be walking into a trap.”

Bardig’s wife closed her eyes. “Wormling, the people here do not believe. Make this journey. Fulfill in every way the mission the King has for you. Study and discover. I will consider it my mission to convince those here to support you upon your return.”

From the woods behind them came whispers and footsteps.

“You must hurry,” the woman said. “And may neither of us fail in our mission.”

After Bardig’s wife left, Owen and Watcher covered the fire with wet leaves and moist soil.

“Follow me,” Watcher said. “I know a quick way down the other side of the mountain.”

It is impossible to relate all that goes on in the mind of a young man sent into another world and given a task—the importance of which he cannot hope to comprehend—while feeling as alone and estranged as a human can feel. All Owen had for comfort, other than the book, was Mucker, the worm that wriggled inside the book, and the cute but cautious Watcher. Faces and places filled his memory: his father, the evil Karl, his friend Petrov at the Blackstone Tavern. Plus the people at his school and Clara. Blessed Clara. Owen couldn’t help but dream that one day he would return, and Clara would be waiting for him. He fell asleep nights thinking of her, wondering what it would be like to talk with her uninterrupted by Gordan and his gang. Owen could talk with her for hours.

* * *

Equally impossible is to do justice to the mind of the being beside Owen, who had been content with living in one place her entire life, listening, sensing, devoted to the task of simply waiting for something to happen. A week. A month. A year. A lifetime. Watcher did not care, for she was committed to her craft.

Now, with the sound of footsteps behind them, other questions invaded Watcher’s mind.

How long will the journey take?

Are the islands of Mirantha as scary and desolate as I’ve heard?

Is this Wormling really the one I have been waiting for?

And what of the Kerrol that is said to live in the waters? Should I tell the Wormling about it? And if I do, might he turn back?

These would have to be answered in due time. Meanwhile, sending a chill down her spine and making her stomach prickle were the questions of whether they would find Mordecai on one of the islands, and if they did, whether he would perform a ceremony for a King he had disowned.

Mordecai held a mythic place in the stories of the Lowlanders, and it was difficult to separate fact from fiction. Some said he had turned into a cannibal, attacking unsuspecting travelers from the tops of palm trees or high rocks (though it was unclear who those unsuspecting travelers might have been). Others said he was strictly a vegetarian and killed travelers only for sport, separating them, then hunting them with arrows or spears (again, the storytellers did not elaborate on the identity of these travelers). Those he did not kill he tied to anthills and slathered with wild honey or dangled over shark-infested waters surrounding the islands.

He was supposed to have invented other unspeakable tortures, and Watcher was inclined to believe all of them. Part of her assumed these were just stories to keep people from the islands, but on the other hand, she knew of no one who had journeyed there and ever returned.

Watcher sensed the Wormling’s fear and thought it best not to divulge too much about Mordecai. She had little doubt that if Mordecai was still alive, they would find him. Her gift was to sense things, to be aware, but she had no idea if their destination would lead to a bright discovery or a painful death.

With only the pack that had survived the flood and food Bardig’s wife had brought from the ruins above her home, these two misfits set off in the pitch blackness, with just a few deep-set stars to accompany them.

Those and the 10 people pursuing them, thrashing about in the woods, carrying torches, and trying to stay quiet.

* * *

Owen followed as closely as he could, at one point grabbing Watcher’s fur, now dry. She moved deftly and without wasted steps, as if she’d played on this hillside as a youngster. Watcher had to know the hills and trails as well as Owen knew the stacks back home at Tattered Treasures.

Owen was quickly spent and tugged her to a stop. “Why so fast?”

She turned, eyes fully dilated, no doubt seeing things Owen couldn’t and probably never would. “Connor and the others trailing us are angry. They speak of death.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just don’t lose me.”

* * *

It is tempting for us to go into detail about the flora and fauna of the Lowlands, the various deciduous and nondeciduous trees, the fertile soil, and the animals scurrying about in the night. However, let us leave that to your imagination—the theater of the mind—and not bore you with information unless it affects Owen and his companion.

That said, understand that the rains and the torrent of the breached lake had changed the land. It was difficult to walk, let alone run, through the forest and over the hump of a hill where Watcher now pulled Owen like a large dog dragging its master by the leash. And when she came to the top of the not-so-well-worn path, instead of feeling the fronds of the familiar ferns that grew along it, all she felt was the mud that became thicker as she scrambled up the slippery path.

Suddenly Watcher’s hooves flew from beneath her, and with Owen holding tight, she fell headfirst into the slimy mess. Both plunged down the slope like it was a flume and they were the logs. She screamed and heard him doing the same as the goo covered them.

* * *

Owen quickly shut his mouth, trying not to swallow any mud as they cascaded faster and faster. Watcher seemed to be frantically reaching for anything to grab on either side of the path, but the plants and trees had been washed away. They were speeding into the darkness when Owen felt the ground give way to nothing but air.

Like cartoon characters suspended in midair, the two windmilled arms and legs and feet and hooves. Owen was aware that daylight might have shown exactly what it was they were falling into, and at that instant he decided it was just as well he didn’t know.

They plunged into a deep body of water with a huge splash, and Owen’s world became a gurgling, dark cave. With The Book of the King secure in his pack, he struggled against the water’s icy pull and sucked in a lungful of water. The shock sent his body into spasms; then he fell limp and sank.

* * *

Watcher soon surfaced and searched for Owen. “Wormling!” she cried. I’ll have to teach him to swim.

She dived into the murky depths, feeling with her hooves for his body. She had descended nearly a hundred feet when she felt his backpack and realized it was still wrapped tightly across his chest. She pulled him to the surface and helped him to the shore, positioning him faceup, his feet still in the icy water.

Convinced the Wormling was dead, Watcher wept. She felt responsible. Now he couldn’t fulfill the prophecy, and the villagers would never know true freedom.

But Watcher’s ears suddenly stood at attention as her hooves, resting gently on his chest, were pressed hard in a pumping motion, as if some other being had taken charge of the rescue.

Owen began to cough and sputter, making Watcher laugh through her tears. She laid her head on the Wormling and sighed.

Above them in the distance, along the ridge that stretched all the way to Mountain Lake, Watcher saw the torches of villagers who searched for them in vain.

“Rest easy, Wormling,” Watcher whispered. “That fall assured we won’t be caught tonight.”

Reaching the islands of Mirantha would not have been easy at any time of the year, but this being the rainy season in the Lowlands made it especially difficult. Rivers were swollen and difficult to cross. Owen could hardly believe that, even this far from Mountain Lake, many villages had been destroyed by the flood, scattering families to higher ground.

His lungs now free of water, Owen was rejuvenated. He and Watcher discovered a cave where they rested, carefully venturing out occasionally to hear the voices of Connor and the others echo through the valley.

At nightfall they set out again through the muddy tangle of trees and plants. As they walked, Owen tried to explain his world, and he could tell Watcher was mystified.

She seemed most astounded that the animals there couldn’t talk. “Was it a big change getting used to—me?”

Owen nodded. “But I don’t think of you as an animal. You’re more of a person to me. You remind me of someone from home, but I can’t think who it is.”

“I remind you how?”

“You know, your sense of humor, the way you talk. The things that make you you.”

“Is it someone you like?”

“Well, I like you. How could I not like someone who saved my life?”

Watcher, leading him through the wilds, turned and walked backward, her stubby tail wagging. “There was something about that, which I didn’t tell you. Something strange.”

Owen stopped. “A voice?”

“No, but I heard one at the lake, earlier in the day, telling me to warn everyone of the flood. Then, when you couldn’t breathe, I felt hands on mine, pressing your chest. It had to be an invisible.”

Though Owen had told only his father about the voice, he now told Watcher about the arm in the night and that voice—strange yet comforting.

“Exactly,” she said. “Every other invisible I’ve encountered has scared me. They either attack or they’re stalking, planning an attack. But this one helped, as if he was on our side.”

They slept in hiding during the day and continued their trek each night, speaking in hushed tones, Watcher pointing out landmarks by the moonlight.

On the third night Owen could still see the outline of Mountain Lake looming behind them. “What lies beyond what’s left of the lake?” he said.

“Wilderness as far as you can imagine. And a place known as Perolys Gulch.”

“Who lives there?”

“A race of cursed people. Outcasts. Diseased. If you ever speak of going there, you will go alone. I’ve known no one to return from there alive.”

Owen pondered her fear, and they walked a little farther. He could tell Watcher was upset just talking about such a place.

“In some places in my world we have mountains you can see for miles while driving.”

“Driving?”

Owen had to explain the concept of cars, which made Watcher gasp. That led to his telling her of all the differences between their worlds. When he mentioned school and every child learning to read, Watcher stopped and stared. “I can’t imagine owning a book, let alone reading one.”

“I can teach you,” Owen said.

“It is forbidden.”

“By whom? Surely not the King.”

“The Dragon. The King is in hiding. We live under all kinds of rules.”

“And how does he make known these rules?”

“Each village is part of a township, the townships divided into regions. Representatives from each region receive the rules from a member of the Dragon’s council.”

“And the citizens have no say?”

“Anyone who has ever argued or even questioned a rule has been killed. Bardig was our representative, but Connor will probably take his place.”

“Is he not afraid the Dragon knows he is a rebel?”

“He fears nothing and no one. Bardig tried to persuade Connor not to mount an attack until the time was right. Until the Wormling came.”

So there it was again: the responsibility that made Owen shiver. He was having a hard enough time taking care of himself. Now others depended on him for their very lives.

“Anyway, you can’t teach me to read,” Watcher said.

“Don’t be so sure. The Dragon is not my sovereign. He has no authority over me. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, he has no right to rule this kingdom. He appointed himself. He destroys. He kills. He’s done nothing but keep the land under his thumb, if he has one.”

Owen grabbed a stick and wrote the first few letters of the alphabet in the sand. “We’ll begin with the basics.”

“And someday I’ll be able to read that big book?”

Owen smiled. “Maybe one day you’ll write one.”

* * *

When Owen and Watcher seemed to have distanced themselves from the voices, they settled into a comfortable pace. Now they walked by day and rested at night. Every day at first light they set off, moving steadily until they couldn’t see the path in the darkness. They slept under trees or in burrows or caves. Watcher was able to determine which dens were vacant merely by her keen sense of smell.

Owen had worried about what they would eat when Bardig’s wife’s treats and the few soggy provisions in his backpack ran out. But they found berries and other fruit along the way, and they occasionally stocked up from the vegetable gardens and fruit trees of villagers. Watcher assured him it was understood among the Lowlanders that any traveler was welcome to the bounty at the edges of each property.

Just when Owen believed he had had enough fruits and vegetables to turn him into a salad, Watcher—quick footed and able to pounce—would catch a pheasant or a turkey or a rabbit and they would roast it. Owen had never enjoyed food that . . . well . . . fresh, but he learned quickly that hunger is always the best seasoning. He also discovered he had a natural talent for cooking the meat to perfection.

As they walked and talked all day, Owen told Watcher stories from his many hours of reading. Treasure Island was one of his favorites, as were the Harry Potter series, the Hardy Boys, and countless fairy tales. He took her into the world of Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked and alone—or so he thought—on a deserted island.

Watcher could hardly stand it when Owen stopped a story in the middle and told her he would tell the rest the next day, but he knew that would keep her interest and make her even more eager to learn to read.

Every day at sunset they found a place to spend the night, gathered wood for their fire, ate, and then Owen read from The Book of the King. Often he read the prophecy of the Wormling, then a story from another part of the book. There were so many to choose from. Some told the exploits of daring knights and kings, others of sojourners like him and Watcher, and still others were simple fables.

“Read the smiling story,” Watcher said one night as they finished their rabbit. She looked exhausted.

“You sure it won’t put you to sleep? You’ve heard it so many times.”

She shook her head and her ears twitched.

Owen opened the book and began to read.

“Gretchen was a young girl with only one smile left in a land where no one smiled. Not even at birthday parties. People were glum. Serious. They didn’t have time for childish things like fun or laughing.

“It had been Gretchen’s practice in the evenings to lock the door of her room, sit in front of the mirror, and smile. It made her feel so warm and good that she couldn’t wait to do it again. But something told her—and she had every reason to believe it—that she had but one smile left. She was saving it for just the right moment when she needed to feel wonderful.

“Walking home from her village one day, her last smile tucked away so she could enjoy it when she chose, she came upon a lad sitting by the roadside, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. He had somehow twisted his ankle, leaving it swollen and puffy. He wouldn’t let Gretchen even touch it.

“She tried to help him up, but still he cried.

“From her basket she pulled a piece of candy, a sucker that made his tongue turn blue, but still he cried.

“Gretchen knew one thing that would make the boy feel better, one thing she could give him that could change his life. But she had only one left, and she wanted to save it for herself.

“Gretchen had to make a choice. Save her last smile or give it away.

“As she gazed upon the weeping child, she made her decision. She took the boy by the shoulders, looked deep into his eyes, and smiled.

“Of course he had never seen such a thing in the land of no smiles. And so the change in him was instantaneous and dramatic. He couldn’t help but respond, and instead of taking the smile and running away with it, he gave it right back.

“So Gretchen had one more smile to enjoy for herself . . . or to give away again. She learned that you can never lose what you freely give.”

Watcher sighed and brought her forelegs up under her, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “I love that story. I know it’s about learning to give, but it also makes me want to smile more often. That sure makes life more enjoyable.”

Owen scooted closer to the fire and curled up. He was teaching Watcher to read, but she was also teaching him. And the next day they were to learn even more.

Ahint of salt blew on the wind, and Watcher told Owen the islands of Mirantha were still at least a day away.

As they slowly picked their way through the wilderness, Watcher kept reminding Owen to be quiet.

He whispered, “Why?”

She nodded toward a barren region of rolling hills filled with tumbleweeds and upturned earth. “The Badlands,” she mouthed.

It appeared to Owen as if the bad part stretched a thousand miles. The land before them had turned from forests and glens to rocky crags, desolate save for scrub oak and the occasional cactus. On either side of the path sheer rock walls created a narrow passage. It was the only way in or out, and they had to move in single file.

Dark clouds foamed and roiled as if a storm was about to explode. It made the passage look like a black tunnel of death.

“This must be Forbidden Canyon,” Watcher whispered. “It is said that the Dragon lived here for a time after his fall from the King’s court.”

“The Dragon used to serve the King?”

Watcher lowered her voice even more. “Something terrible happened between him and the King. I know only what Bardig told me.”

“How did Bardig know?”

Watcher stopped suddenly, and her ears twitched. She looked up. “Demon flyers. Come!”

She pushed Owen inside the canyon as a blast of wind swept over them and a giant wing flapped, reminding Owen of the terror of the Dragon pursuing them at the B and B. Owen ducked a jutting rock and fell into the sand. Watcher joined him as the flyer passed.

“Are they looking for us?” Owen whispered.

Watcher shook her head and closed her eyes. “Demon flyers herd and gather their prey.”

Owen studied the rock walls. Something drew him, but he couldn’t place it.

“You’re not thinking of going up there, are you?” Watcher said.

“Perhaps the King’s Son is there. If we follow those flying things back to—”

Watcher pulled him down. “Another!”

The air swirled violently, and an unearthly cry echoed off the walls, penetrating Owen’s heart. It sounded like the screech of some demonic beast.

Watcher said, “Come, hurry, before it’s totally dark in the canyon.”

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance as Owen squinted to try to see. Stones skittered down the walls, forcing Owen and Watcher to take cover. Floating through the chasm came an eerie, mournful lament, as if someone was rehearsing deep regrets and sorrows.

“That’s an enchantment,” Watcher said, raising her shoulders to cover her ears. “Hurry. Don’t listen.”

But Owen was already caught in the grasp of the music. He looked up as it swirled around him like smoke from a campfire. He noticed movement—eyes peering down. He quickly caught up to Watcher.

“If you get trapped in this, Wormling, I will have to leave you! There’s no hope for you if you become enchanted.”

The music followed them, and Owen thought he heard movement above, perhaps voices. Was this part of the enchantment? Something stirred deep within him. “How can there be music,” he whispered, “when it’s been outlawed for so long?”

They could see only a thin strip of the dark sky from this deep in the canyon, and Owen noticed mist descending. Thunder cracked closer, and the music became even more somber, sounding like a funeral dirge. Owen had been to only one funeral in his life, for an old man whose workshop had been next to the bookstore. The music had been played soft and slow, as if the room couldn’t handle the people’s silence. It was the one thing Owen remembered, other than the strange symbol on the dead man’s ring.

Suddenly drums joined the music, and it grew so loud that the ground shook.

Owen glanced up to see Watcher’s mouth form an O as she stared at something behind him.

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.”

Hungry as he was and as mouthwatering as smells from the kitchens were, Owen collapsed into bed and did not awaken until late morning. Watcher was already up and rubbing her swollen stomach after a hearty breakfast. Kimshi had saved a plate for Owen, and as soon as he had eaten, he suggested to Watcher that they get their things together. “We might make it to the shore by nightfall.”

Kimshi and the other women loaded them down with foodstuffs that wouldn’t spoil for months. The group gathered for a song about the book and also a farewell ditty, which made both Owen and Watcher brush away tears. Owen could hardly believe how close he felt to these tiny creatures, having been here less than one whole day.

“You will always be part of our family,” Erol said, “always part of our music. And we stand ready to join you in any battle.”

Owen rushed the embraces and good-byes to try to maintain his composure, and soon he and Watcher had descended to the ravine. New striations showed on the rock walls from the recent torrent, and the ground bore a new layer of soft silt.

At the end of the narrow canyon they searched and searched for the skiff, and Owen decided it had long since been washed away.

“I’m not giving up,” Watcher announced. “We can’t swim to the islands, after all.”

“We’d better go back and ask Erol for help building a new craft,” Owen said.

“That would take days. Let me keep looking.”

Owen felt like a sloth, sitting in the sun while Watcher scampered about, and he nearly dozed again. By late afternoon he was feeling miserable and impatient, but Watcher had shamed him by doing all the work. He almost hoped she wouldn’t find the boat so he could justify having done nothing all day while she wasted time.

As the sun began to descend beyond the peaks in the west, Watcher whooped from a tiny alcove.

Owen rushed to her side as she kicked away branches to reveal a flat, broad platform anchored to the rocks. The skiff!

It consisted simply of a dozen large saplings bound together over two support beams. A crude rudder was attached to the back for steering, and Owen fashioned an oar from wood he found. The whole thing was lighter than Owen expected, and they were able to hoist it onto their shoulders.

A few hundred yards from the mouth of the ravine, they heard music and turned to see Erol and his band atop the ridge where he and Owen had talked all night. The little people played and sang them a joyous send-off.

The sun had disappeared and the sky was darkening when Owen and Watcher finally lowered the skiff and fell, exhausted, in the black sand. It was warm and seemed to envelop them as they lay near the lapping water.

Owen pulled the vial Erol had given him from his pack. “This is jargid musk. It—”

“You don’t need to explain that to me,” Watcher said, turning up her nose. “Jargids are the most horrid creatures in the land.”

He told her of the traveler and his belief that the musk would ward off the Kerrol.

“It would sure ward me off,” Watcher said. “How in the world was he able to milk that thing?”

They built a small fire on a black dune, propping up the skiff to shield them from the blowing sand. As darkness settled, Owen studied the three faint silhouettes on the horizon, the islands of Mirantha. “If Mordecai is there, how did he make it and how did he elude the Kerrol?”

Watcher shivered and held up the vial. “I do not want to meet that beast in the water or on land.”

“We’ll slather ourselves with the musk and wait for the tide,” Owen said.

Watcher’s ears went rigid as something moved in the water. Then came a splash as if a whale had surfaced and dived back in. A hideous call echoed toward the caves of Erol.

“We’d better wait till morning, when we can see,” Watcher said.

“The oil will protect us,” Owen said, as if he knew it would work. In truth he could only hope.

If you remember, at the end of the first installment of our story, Watcher told Owen that the picture of his mother looked like a woman Watcher knew from a distant village. Now, with the water lapping at the shore and Owen listening to Watcher’s even breathing as she slept, he dug through his pack for a morsel Kimshi had wrapped for him and came upon this picture once again.

Ever since he could remember, Owen had been told that his mother had died giving him birth, and though he knew better, he could never shake the feeling that he was responsible for her death.

He stared at the picture as he munched his breakfast, running a finger over her face. Could it be that the woman Watcher knew was a relative? No. From what he could tell, the only people who slipped from one world to another were Wormlings.

Except for Mr. Page.

And the Dragon.

Watcher stirred. The fur above her eyes had a way of creeping down her forehead and covering her eyes as she slept. When she awoke, she stretched and scratched at her hair until it rested comfortably above again. It was cute, Owen thought, and he knew she had no idea he was watching her.

She stood and saw the picture. “Thinking of home?”

“I’m thinking we’ve come a long way from everything I’ve known, and I’ve no idea how much farther we might need to go.” He put the picture down and tossed her some dried fruit. “You won’t want to eat after we’ve applied the oil.”

After she ate, Watcher helped pack the skiff and drag it closer to the water, watching for any sign of the Kerrol.

“The woman I told you about,” Watcher said, “she lives in a different direction from here. Maybe after the initiation—”

“It’s all right,” Owen said. “There’s probably no connection.”

“But there might be. If we could find her . . .”

“Let’s just get this oil on and get going,” he said, overcome with an anxiousness he couldn’t explain.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Wormling.”

Owen uncorked the bottle and poured a little oil into his palm, trying to hold his breath.

“Are you sure we can’t dilute it with water?”

“It doesn’t come with directions,” he said, slathering it onto his arms and behind his neck. He couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the stench. “Let me put some on you.”

Watcher gave him a death stare. “I don’t think I could stand going all the way to the islands smelling like that.”

“You’re going to smell me anyway. Or would you rather be devoured?”

“I’d rather stay here and wait for you,” she said, coughing. “You must understand—my sense of smell is more acute than yours. This would go straight from my fur to my brain.”

“Fine. If you don’t want to go, stay. I’ll find Mordecai myself.” He jammed the cork into the bottle.

Watcher extended a foreleg. “Wait. I’d never forgive myself.”

“You don’t have to come,” Owen spat.

She trotted to the other side of the dune and brought back a dollop of clay from the hillside, shoving it into her nostrils. “There. I can breathe through my mouth.”

She closed her eyes as Owen applied the oil to her. He just hoped the Kerrol had her same sense of smell.

Owen could barely keep his breakfast down. “Better give me some of that clay.” It helped but not much. He had to smile at how they must look. A young boy and a furry Watcher, clay stuffed in their noses, boarding a wood skiff, smelling of jargid.

The water was cold and clear, and Owen saw small fish dart away as he helped Watcher push. When they reached a row of waves, the surf crashed over the skiff and turned it around, nearly knocking Owen off his feet.

After several tries, Owen finally climbed on and paddled hard as Watcher worked at keeping her balance. Then a wave knocked him from the skiff like a man waving a fly from a picnic basket.

Watcher leaped in, holding Owen above the water until they could recover the craft.

Climbing on again, Owen put his head down and rowed with everything in him as Watcher swam and pushed from behind. “Here it comes!” Owen yelled as another huge wave began to form.

“Keep paddling!” Watcher shouted.

The skiff rose and Owen felt 10 feet above the water. Finally he rode down the other side, sliding into the ocean toward the islands! “Yeah!” Owen hollered. “We did it! We made it!” He turned to help Watcher from the water, but she wasn’t there. He yelled for her and frantically scanned the pounding surf behind them.

“Looking for something?” she said with a mischievous smile, head resting on the front of the skiff.

Owen helped her on and assigned her to the rudder. His rowing seemed to help, but he knew they were at the mercy of the tides now. A passage from The Book of the King came to mind: Nothing good is ever easy.

And a parallel saying: We learn most from that which is most difficult.

If that’s true, Owen thought, I’m learning a lot.

If you are a casual reader who cruises through a book picking out snippets of the story, the Kerrol may appear to you much the same as the Slimesees who lived near the portal under Owen’s home. But if you are one who pays attention to details, you will note that while the Slimesees may have been effective against one who had stumbled onto the portal, he was no match for Owen once he had breached it and had in his possession the most powerful weapon against the enemy of souls, The Book of the King. In the end, Owen had the King’s authority, which made the Slimesees shriek.

The Kerrol, however, had a different agenda than his counterpart in Owen’s world. And the Kerrol weighed as much as one and a half killer whales—about 21,000 pounds (though he had eaten a great white shark the day before and added a few thousand pounds). Neither did he care about dieting. He swam around the islands, often showing his great fin to scare anyone bold enough to think they could reach the islands from the shore. His greenish body blended perfectly with the rock formations around him.

Now the Kerrol floated deep below the surface, his stomach full but not satisfied. It was never satisfied, never knew when to stop eating. Schools of fish swam past, but they were too small to bother with. He didn’t even bat a scaly eyelid. He shifted and floated down to the deck of one of the many ships that lined the ocean floor. The Kerrol had sunk many, devouring crews and passengers along with contents of their galleys and mess halls. One slash of his mighty tail would open a hole in most vessels. And when years would pass without a ship’s captain having the courage to test the waters, the Kerrol would be forced to forage for his usual cuisine—anything in the water.

But eventually people would grow brazen again, calling the stories nonsense. They would venture out, flouting the danger until they saw the hideous head rise from the water. The ocean would engulf them, and the razor-sharp claws or the pointed teeth would tear their flesh.

The Kerrol was not above toying with his prey. Once, just for sport, he had allowed a ship to dock and waited under the rickety bridge that tied two of the islands. In the moonlight, when a couple of the two-legs went for a stroll, the Kerrol silently rose and suspended himself next to them. He plucked them both from the walkway and enjoyed them as appetizers.

Others from the boat came looking for them, and the Kerrol picked bits of cloth from between his teeth and positioned them along the beach. The others carried long sharpened knives on their hips as they called for their friends.

The Kerrol followed them at a distance, watching and waiting, picking off a lone searcher who got too close to the water, then two more who dared cross the rickety bridge. It was going well until a child screamed, alerting the others. It was most difficult to hide from a child. The others climbed back on their boat, only to cross the path of the Kerrol in deep water.

It was that very ship’s bell on the deck of the mangled vessel that the Kerrol played with now as shafts of light pierced the water. And then, as if it had every right to be there, a flat object blocked the sunlight, and the Kerrol twisted to get a better look. With a mighty swish of his tail, the Kerrol rose, sucking water through his gills, sniffing for anything that might pass for food.

The Kerrol studied the square object that seemed familiar and remembered who had piloted this vessel before—the sole two-leg who did not scream and thrash and attempt to flee but looked him in the eye and made strange sounds that pierced his heart.

The Kerrol flew faster toward the surface, his great webbed feet clawing at the water. Despite the white shark in his belly, it rumbled for more.

All the Kerrol could think about was the curse of the only two-leg who had ever eluded him. The stench. The courage. The falling back into the water with the waves pushing the vessel toward shore.

The Kerrol wanted revenge. And his hatred propelled him.

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.

No!”

Owen’s shout must have startled the bushy being, because his machete blow didn’t hit squarely, and he cut only half the grapevine tied to a massive tree. Watcher and Owen hung precariously (which is to say they nearly wet themselves), swinging and hearing the sickening stretching and tearing of the vine.

They were utterly at the mercy of Machete Man.

“We’re friends!” Owen cried.

The man peered over the edge again, this time with an ugly sneer. “Go back down, and I’ll let you live!” His voice boomed like thunder.

Retreat after all they’d been through? Though terrified, Owen couldn’t imagine it. Something had changed within him, and he found himself willing to risk death rather than turn back now.

“Are you deaf?” the man roared, drawing back the blade again.

“You can’t kill us!” Watcher yelled. “He’s a Wormling!”

Owen had shut his eyes, waiting for the second, fatal slash of the machete. But all he heard was silence. He glanced up to see the man leaning over the edge, angling his head so he could see past Owen to Watcher.

“What did you say?”

“A Wormling!” she said, speaking faster than Owen had ever heard her. “I’m a Watcher in the Valley of Shoam and he arrived just days ago and we’ve come for the initiation!”

“Shoam? You know Bardig?”

“Of course! At the head of the valley. But Bardig is no longer with us. Dreadwart killed him.”

“Dreadwart,” the man said, the bombast gone from his tone. It was as if he remembered something Owen could not even imagine.

“But Dreadwart was killed too,” Watcher said.

“That ought to reap the Dragon’s ire.”

“Oh, we’ve suffered since then,” Watcher said. “That’s why we need the Wormling initiated. Bardig’s widow told us only one person knows the initiation rite. We have the scroll, but no one can read it.”

Owen hung there, just feet from the ledge, his body screaming for relief. His fingers were knotted around the now-flimsy vine, and his legs and feet cramped with the effort of hanging on.

The man who held their fate seemed to study them, his gaze darting back and forth between them. His face had been overtaken by his beard, mustache, and eyebrows, like a rock wall engulfed by vines, and his eyes peeked out from deep caverns. His hair was black and thick and curly, covering his head like a helmet. His great beard, which flowed like a forest from his chin to his chest, bore flecks of gray and red. Owen wasn’t sure if this was his natural color or something left over from dinner. His lips and prominent nose were as red as cherries.

He wore simple sleeveless clothing made of animal skins, the tails of which hung from his back. His pants were ragged and dirty, rolled up at the cuffs. The knees were worn through.

Most striking was an ugly scar of red patches and skin growths visible even under all that hair. It seemed to begin at his cheek and run all the way across his face and down his neck to the end of his right arm.

“Please let us come up,” Owen said, dizzy from fatigue.

“Who are you looking for?” the man snarled.

“Mordecai,” Owen managed.

“No one here by that name. Now go.”

When the man backed away from the ledge, Watcher nudged Owen. “What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Go on up! He knew Bardig. He has to be Mordecai. Do you see anyone else on this island?”

Owen hung there as the cut in the vine creaked and stretched even wider.

“Go, Wormling! Now! Please!”

“Watcher! Hold still! You’re breaking the vine!” They swung as the vine fibers began to snap. Owen should have moved when she told him, but now it was too late. It was giving way—and fast. “Grab something!”

Before Watcher could react, Owen felt the final snap and the sickening knowledge that they were free-falling into the abyss. There was nothing to grab on to, so he squeezed the vine even tighter. Weightless now, he could only pray that he would somehow lose consciousness before impact with the stone canyon floor.

Owen had plunged only a few feet when the vine grew taut again and they stopped and hung in midair. The jerk made him almost lose his grip, and he found himself slipping, his feet resting on Watcher’s shoulders.

“Sorry!” he hollered, but Watcher was looking up past him.

Not only had the vine stopped, but now it was being lifted! Owen turned and saw the hairy man pulling the vine, hand over hand, as they slowly ascended. Finally, the man grabbed Owen’s jacket and pulled him to safety. One more pull and Watcher scampered onto the ledge.

Owen dropped to his knees, exhausted, but noticed Watcher gazing out over the beach and the ocean. “Quite a view,” she said, panting.

The hairy man sniffed. “I didn’t come here for the view.”

“What did you come here for?” Watcher said.

The man just headed for his cave.

Owen quickly rose and followed him, somehow no longer afraid. “We came all this way to find Mordecai. We risked being eaten by that thing out there and almost died on your vine. The least you could do is tell us who you are.”

The man turned and stared at Owen with his pinpoint black eyes.

“Are you Mordecai?” Owen said.

The man ruminated like a cow chewing its cud. “What difference could it possibly make?”

“Tell us!”

The man paused. “I used to be called that. No longer.”

“Why?”

“That is not your business, nor is it your business to be here. You’ll find fresh vines behind the tree. Wedge them tightly before you go down.”

Watcher drew closer, brushing Owen’s elbow with her shoulder as the man disappeared into the cave. “We have risked everything to find you,” she called after him, her voice echoing. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t trouble you further. But there are lives at stake. Please look at the scroll. The Wormling has it in The Book of the King.”

Mordecai returned to the mouth of the cave, eyes wide. “You have the book?”

Owen nodded.

“Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t find it. It found me. A man named Mr. Page visited my father’s bookstore—”

Mordecai held up a hand and scanned the sky. “Come inside. Both of you. Quickly.”

Owen couldn’t place the odor at first, but after a few steps inside the cave, he realized it was a hint of jargid musk.

Mordecai had hewed a crude fireplace into the wall, and some kind of animal was roasting over the coals. Pelts of an animal Owen didn’t recognize were stacked beside a blocky wood table. Fruit and vegetables hung on a vine strung at the back of the cave near a hammock—again of skins—suspended between four huge timbers.

Mordecai plainly did not care about venturing into the civilized world ever again. Owen found it difficult to tear his eyes from the man, with his great fields of hair and the nearly endless scar.

“The book,” Mordecai said, grabbing a torch and pointing to the only chair.

As Owen sat and placed his pack on the table, the big man settled on the floor and Watcher edged closer. Owen set the half-empty vial of jargid musk beside the pack and reached for the book.

Mordecai squinted. “Where did you get that stuff?”

Owen told him.

“Erol and his clan are a good bunch.”

Owen nodded.

“Do you know why the Kerrol hates jargid musk so much?”

“No idea,” Owen said.

Mordecai swirled the oil in the bottle and set it back on the table. “Nor do I. I didn’t know sea creatures could smell.” He rose and turned the spit, muttered something under his breath, and sat back down. “I hoped the Kerrol would end my life. It feeds on such as me. And you. But whether it was the stench or that it couldn’t stand to eat something as ugly as it is, I don’t know.”

“We’re not ugly,” Watcher said.

Mordecai raised an eyebrow. “Come, come, the book.”

Owen dug it out, and Mordecai cradled it like a long-lost baby, running his massive, scarred hand over the cover. “Describe the man you say gave you this.”

“Older, longish gray hair under a large hat. A coat that reached the ground.”

“Did he wear a ring?”

“I’m not sure.”

Mordecai inched closer. “What about his eyes?”

“Two,” Owen said.

Watcher giggled.

Mordecai was clearly not amused. “What color? Anything different about them?”

“Blue,” Owen said. “And when he looked at me, it felt like—”

“He was piercing your soul?”

“Exactly. You know Mr. Page?”

Mordecai pulled the scroll from the book. “Why did he give this to you?”

Owen sensed Watcher’s unease and turned to try to calm her. But before he could speak, she pursed her lips and shook her furry head. “You don’t have to answer these questions. You’re a Wormling. He should bow to you.”

Owen turned back. “Mr. Page must have known I was a Wormling. He told me to read the book, and now I know I’m to search for the King’s Son. But it was the initiation I was unaware of, and Watcher and the others say I need it.”

Mordecai looked from the scroll to Owen and back as he pored over the letters. He handed it back. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ll prepare another vine for your descent.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” Owen said.

Mordecai stared at him, then rose and lumbered out of the cave.

“That’s it?” Watcher called after him. “We come all this way and you won’t help?”

Mordecai returned, dark eyes fierce. “You don’t know what you’re asking. The rite calls for more than simply reciting a few words and patting him on the head. There’s work involved. Training. Lots of it.”

“I’m not afraid of training,” Owen said. “If it will help me find the King’s Son—”

“You’ll never find him,” Mordecai snapped. “You won’t last a day out there.”

“We’ve come this far,” Watcher said. “We made it past the Kerrol. The Wormling escaped the Slimesees. And Dreadwart, the demon flyers—”

“The Dragon will never let you find him.” Mordecai sighed and sat near the fire, turning the meat again. “He has too many weapons, too many eyes.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Watcher said. “Extra eyes and ears for the Wormling.”

“A Watcher cannot engage in battle. You can only warn him of danger, not prevent it.”

“But if you trained me,” Owen said, “I could counter anything he throws at me.”

Mordecai shook his head. “No training can prepare you for that kind of evil. He devours. He destroys. He kills. He burns.” He furrowed his brow. “Why would Page have gone to another world and chosen you?”

“Do you not trust this Mr. Page?” Watcher said. Mordecai looked startled, like a deer in headlights. “If Mr. Page were here and asked you to initiate the Wormling, would you do it?”

Mordecai looked away. “Of course.”

“Mr. Page sent this Wormling here to find the King’s Son. If you refuse to help, you’ll go against Mr. Page’s wishes.”

Mordecai moved to the spit and tore off a chunk of meat. He broke it into three pieces, popped one in his mouth, and handed the others to Owen and Watcher.

It did not look or smell as appetizing as the hanging fruit, but when Watcher sniffed hers, bit into it with her gleaming teeth, and shrugged, Owen tentatively tasted his. Though it was gamy and salty, he was able to force it down. But even after a breakfast of only coconut, his hunger was not enough to season this meat.

Mordecai paced. “I can see you have a fire inside you. Whether that is enough to survive the slings and arrows of the evil one remains to be seen. I would hate to see you sliced by a demon flyer.”

“You’ll train him?” Watcher said.

Mordecai wiped his face. “Only if you’re dead serious about it, Wormling.” He pulled a hook from the wall and took down the fruit, revealing an inner cave. “You can sleep there, out of sight of the invisibles. They don’t bother me much anymore.”

“How long will the initiation take?” Owen said.

“Depends on how you take to the training. We’ll know when the time has come for the initiation ceremony.” He handed Owen another piece of meat.

“Is eating this part of the training?” Owen said.

“As a matter of fact, it is. Not to mention a pleasure. Jargid is my favorite.”

Owen’s stomach clenched.

“My clothes are made of jargid skins. I also have jargid jerky curing near your sleeping quarters. I’ve been eating it since I was a boy.”

As Owen slept on jargid skins in the back chamber of Mordecai’s cave, he dreamed fantastic scenes. The sky was black, the landscape shrouded in fog, and people ran in fear. Though he did not recognize them, somehow he shared their dread. They looked over their shoulders as they fled, fright etched on their faces. Women gathered children in their arms as men trailed them, pushing, urging them faster.

And then, out of the gloom, they were cut down one by one, some killed, some injured, some burned and screaming.

One boy ran ahead of the rest of the villagers. He wore moccasins and loose-fitting clothes of leather. His long hair was tied in the back, like a rat tail. He ran swiftly and was one of the last survivors. In Owen’s dream, he struggled to catch up to the boy, following him to the crest of a hill. Above Owen appeared the long talons of some creature, and a burst of flame turned the hill into an inferno.

As the fire pummeled the earth, the boy looked back, and it was at this point that Owen, shaking his head in his sleep and thrashing about in the jargid skins, saw his face. Just before the fire engulfed him and burned him to a crisp, Owen bolted straight up and bumped his head on the cave wall. The boy’s face had been his own. Owen was the boy in the dream.

Owen smelled smoke and squinted to make out the silhouette of Mordecai stoking embers. No wonder his dream had included fire.

Watcher slept soundly just outside the opening to Owen’s chamber, mouth open, tongue lolling, ears flopped back. “I’m going to catch you,” she said in her sleep, then laughed as if she were playing.

Owen rearranged himself under the jargid skins, trying to stay warm. He’d assumed sleeping in a cave would guarantee warm nights, but a heavy mist had blown in with the surf, bringing with it a damp cold. The nightmare had shaken him, and now sleep was elusive. He draped the largest skin around his shoulders, padding out to the fire.

“Bad dream?” Mordecai whispered.

Owen nodded.

“It’s a good night to dream,” Mordecai said, “but nightmares are never pleasant.”

The fire flickered on the man’s face, and Owen was suddenly overcome with pity. How sad to live alone in a cave on a deserted island guarded by a sea monster.

Mordecai set down the poker and crossed his arms, sighing. “So, what was yours about?”

Owen told him every detail, and Mordecai winced.

“You don’t suppose,” Owen said, “it could be more than a dream, perhaps a premonition?”

“Wormlings are rarely prophets. Leave that job to those it falls to.”

“So it was just a bad dream, meaning nothing?”

Mordecai drew up one of his massive feet and scratched it. “I believe our dreams often reflect our fears. Like anyone, I fear the Dragon. But my greater fear is that I have lost the will—or the courage—to get involved.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but Watcher and I got the feeling you had given up.”

“Ah, I was just testing you, trying to determine whether you really had greatness in you or only a taste for adventure. Call me banished or exiled or whatever you wish, but the better part of me is just biding my time, waiting for my moment. You know what I mean?”

Owen tried not to look surprised. In truth, Mordecai had been very convincing as a bitter old man with no interest in the future. “I think you are a good man. I don’t know what brought you here, but I believe you know right from wrong and will seize the opportunity when the time comes.”

Mordecai cocked his head and seemed to study Owen. “I do not envy you, Wormling. You still bear the notion that one life can make a difference.”

“If you don’t agree, why train me?”

“For one, you and your sleeping friend there would not be dissuaded. Annoying as that is, it is also admirable. And Mr. Page carries a certain weight with me—”

“Why?”

“That is not your concern. Suffice it to say, I will honor his request, even though I fear it will be a waste of time and energy.”

Owen sat with his thoughts, then said, “It is not even close to dawn, is it?”

Mordecai laughed and shook his head. “There are many hours before the sun.”

“Then why are you up?”

Mordecai drew a long breath through his great nose and stared at the fire. “I suppose because I believed all this was behind me, that I had come far enough that it would not follow. After all this time my hopes and dreams became simple. I hope that the storms will stay away another month. I long for a bigger supply of jargid meat, a steady source of freshwater.”

“And then I showed up.”

“And then you showed up.”

“You weren’t really exiled, were you, Mordecai? You chose to come here.”

“There are different types of exiles. Yes, mine was self-imposed. I came here of my own will. And I will remain here.”

“But why? What made you want to leave everyone? Don’t you have a family?”

Mordecai turned away from Owen in silence and busied himself with the embers again, though the fire seemed to be doing well on its own. When he finally spoke, his voice became husky. “You should not concern yourself with my story. It is yours, Wormling, that must be told.”

“But The Book of the King says every story is important.”

“The happy ones, perhaps. The ones that end well and never disappoint.”

“Some stories are sad because they are only half finished. Like reading a book only halfway through.”

“Believe me, Wormling, my story is finished. It is a tragedy not fit for a young mind like yours. Nor for old minds, for that matter.”

The fire had begun to warm Owen, and sleep pursued him. Yet, strangely, he realized his time reading The Book of the King had made some deep impression on him. He couldn’t imagine arguing with an adult in his world, let alone trying to advise one, but the wisdom of the book seemed to penetrate his soul and mind. He found himself eager to share his new insights.

“But, sir, doesn’t it take tragedy to appreciate triumph? What would the mountain be without the valley? There’s a lesson in that for those who believe their lives are over or that they have no purpose left.”

Though Mordecai appeared uncomfortable with all this, Owen believed he might be getting through.

“Tell me this, Wormling: what about a person who has failed at the only important task ever given him, someone responsible for the deaths of ones he loves and the driving of others into the darkness?”

“One failure does not ruin a life,” Owen said. “We all fall short of perfection.”

“Some fall shorter than others.”

“But we must not be defeated by one defeat. Think of the great inventor Thomas Edison and how many failures he endured before creating the lightbulb.”

“The what? Who?”

Owen flushed, remembering he was in an entirely different world. He could have used the example of writers unable to get their manuscripts accepted by publishers but who went on to become important in people’s lives, but that too would be foreign to Mordecai. “At what point do you stop trying—100 failures? More?”

“Remember that question in the morning, Wormling. You will fail in your training, but you will also grow. I promise to make sure of that.” He squeezed Owen’s shoulder with his scarred hand. “Now back to bed with you. You have a long day ahead.”

Why can’t they be clearer with their descriptions, RHM?” the Dragon rumbled, having incinerated yet another underling on the floor of his vast meeting room.

As the poor creature’s ashes smoldered, the Dragon’s aide, RHM, bowed low, eyes to the floor. “Sire, because the Watcher stays so close to the Wormling, it is imperative that our people stay far enough away that they can’t be detected. This is why the details are, shall we say, sketchy.”

“How can details be sketchy?” the Dragon growled. “They would then cease to be details, would they not?”

RHM paused. Had you been in the room, you would have sworn that the being was amused with the Dragon, tempted to make fun of him. But he quickly thought better of it. “What of the boy in the Highlands? Have you found him yet?”

“O great one, he continues to elude us. Without the beacon, it seems nearly impossible.”

“You know how important it is that he be found,” the Dragon roared.

“I do, and we are doing all we can. However, in the meantime, allow me to introduce an invisible you might find most suited to the job at hand.”

He ushered in a tentacled being with snakelike eyes who seemed to bear no fear of death, despite having to step over the room-temperature remains of his predecessor.

The Dragon’s brows—if that’s what we may call the bony protrusions over his languid, watery eyes—seemed to rise with interest at the very brashness of this creature.

“Sire, this is Veildrom, the last of the Stalkers to have seen the target Wormling. Allow me to inform you that he—”

“Enough, RHM,” the Dragon said, studying his own ever-lengthening fingernails. “Allow Veildrom to tell me what he will and quickly. I am so weary of vagueness.”

“Your Majesty—” Veildrom bowed—“I bring you a secondhand report from the Badlands, where—”

“Secondhand?” the Dragon spat. He inhaled as if about to spit fire.

“Indulge him, sire,” RHM said, and when the Dragon whirled to glare at him, RHM added, “Please?”

“We do not normally rely on demon flyers for reports, but under the circumstances—”

The Dragon sighed and waved. “Yes, yes, out with it.”

“They tell me they saw two beings in the narrow gorge that borders the territory of the mines. One was a Watcher and the other a human, a young man who very well could be the Wormling.”

The Dragon rolled his eyes. “Could be?”

Veildrom told him how the two had barely escaped the flash flood.

“Pity they didn’t perish.” He turned to RHM. “Are we doing too much with the water thing? The whole deluge from the Mountain Lake and all that? I hate to get into a rut.”

“The flash flood was a natural disaster, sire.”

“Yes, well, let’s just not become too predictable, hmm? We do have other tactics.”

“The two were spotted a day later in the sea on a flotation device,” Veildrom said.

“They did not approach the Badlands?” the Dragon said.

“The Wormling appeared to gaze upon it during the wee hours of the morning, using some kind of looking device provided by the musicians of Erol.”

The Dragon shook his head. “I thought we took care of that clan.”

RHM stepped forward, hands clasped. “Mostly, sire. Those left have hidden themselves and no longer constitute a concern. They are, as it were, contained, having no influence—”

“They apparently had some influence on the Wormling and this Watcher! Food, encouragement for the journey and the task ahead, no doubt. That’s all we need—aid to those miserable creatures and their measly lives.”

“Would you like me to—?”

The Dragon dismissed RHM’s notion with a wave and turned to Veildrom. “Anything else?”

“The demon flyers watched until the two were attacked by the Kerrol just off the islands of Mirantha.”

“Then our worries are over,” the Dragon said. “You should have started with that.”

“Not quite, Your Majesty. They have since been spotted on the islands, though their skiff is in pieces on the rocks.”

The Dragon’s crusty face contorted with confusion. “The Kerrol has one job! Is he past his prime? too old and feeble for the task? Have his teeth fallen out from poor hygiene?”

“We’re as puzzled as you, sire,” Veildrom said. “For only recently the Kerrol sank a vessel north of the islands and consumed the crew and passengers.”

“And yet he’s bested by a tiny Watcher and a young human?”

“They’ve obviously been helped, sire,” Veildrom said.

“Obviously. But by whom?”

“We don’t know.”

“I don’t like that answer,” the Dragon said, a rattle deep in his throat.

Veildrom approached the Dragon. “I visited the caves of Erol.”

“Why not the islands of Mirantha?”

“The Watcher would have sensed me.”

“Don’t make me drag this from you. What did you learn in the caves?”

“There was talk of a liquid the Wormling used to repel the Kerrol. Even more interesting was where they got it.”

The Dragon’s eyes were slits now. “Will you get on with it!”

“An older gentleman visited these outcasts some time ago and left a vial of liquid the leader was to provide a Wormling with should he ever come through.”

“He has been there,” the Dragon said, his throat foaming. “But what would the Wormling be looking for on the island? Surely not what is hidden there.”

“The musicians spoke of a man who could perform some sort of ceremony for the Wormling. The Wormling and the Watcher seemed desperate to find this man.”

The Dragon huffed. “RHM, tell me the only other living person who can perform the initiation is the King!”

“Unless someone close to him also knew,” RHM said.

“No!” the Dragon wheezed. “He can’t still be alive.”

“Who?” Veildrom said.

“A pathetic character who swore allegiance to the King long ago. He was killed in a fire at the castle.”

“Or so we thought,” RHM said. “But even if he survived, how would he have made it to the islands of—?”

“Veildrom,” the Dragon said, “do you know anything else?”

For the first time, Veildrom seemed shaken. “One other thing, sire. Erol’s clan still sings and plays. I said nothing to stop them, of course, because I didn’t want them to know who I worked for.”

“They are harmless,” the Dragon snapped. “Contained, as RHM said.”

“But their songs have taken a triumphal turn. No more laments about the past. They sing jubilant tunes regarding the Day of the Wormling. And they have written some that . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, that question the length of your reign, sire.”

“Indeed?”

“They seem confident, derisive about your abilities to contain the uprising the Wormling is sure to mount. They sing that you will be defeated by the good that will one day rule the hearts of men.”

“Fools! They shall pay dearly. You have done well, Veildrom. Haste to the island and bring me news. If you fear the Watcher, kill her if you must.”

When Veildrom was gone, RHM asked the Dragon if there was anything else.

“I must figure the best way to make Erol and his lot truly suffer. Not fire but something more painful. Something that lasts. And I must slow this Wormling. If he reaches initiation before we stop him, there’s no telling what havoc he might wreak.”

“Allow me to suggest something, Highness,” RHM whispered, leaning close, which was not easy, given the girth—and the stench—of the Dragon.

When he had finished, a hideous smile curled the Dragon’s lips. “Excellent idea. I like it. Maximum effect on the maximum number, and we will be free of the threat of the Wormling without so much as lifting a finger.”

The two laughed until the Dragon threw back his head and gave a triumphant roar, shooting fire from the castle top, illuminating his kingdom.

Watcher snorted and rolled onto her stomach, her fur hanging in her eyes. She stretched and tried to get the fur smoothed in a polite manner, but there was always a tuft sticking up somewhere. She just hoped it gave her a certain style.

She couldn’t remember sleeping so well since the Wormling had come to her world. Every night in the cave she felt more and more at home. She yawned, her tongue snaking out and curling, and arched her back, feeling her spine crackle.

On the first day of Owen’s training she made sure she went along—to protect him from the behemoth if nothing else. But as the days wore on and Owen and Mordecai worked on new tests of strength, Watcher became bored and began exploring the island or watching for the Kerrol from treetops. She had even strung herself a hammock, made from leftover vines near Mordecai’s cave, at one edge of the place.

Now the standard breakfast was on the table—fruit and the jargid jerky Mordecai had cured. At first it had been difficult to sleep with food hanging right over her, but she had gotten used to it. And she had actually developed a taste for the meat of an animal that made a skunk smell nice. Watcher ate the fruit quickly, then stuffed the dried meat in her mouth. She could make it last an hour or the whole day.

On the table lay a hand-drawn map of what Mordecai had planned for Owen today. Owen had also drawn a picture on a leaf with a piece of blackened wood. The picture showed a big man with a boy by a mountain stream. Several landmarks were included.

When Watcher ventured outside, the sun was glowing on the horizon, and clouds passed so close that she could almost touch them. Down on the beach the waves lapped peacefully, and a great, white-winged bird glided.

The new grapevine hung from the tree near the cave, and like someone who had become used to walking on scaffolds hundreds of feet in the air, Watcher approached the ledge like it was no big deal. She wrapped her legs around the grapevine, the leaf tucked tightly under her chin, and hurtled over the edge until her hind legs cushioned her against the rock wall. Mordecai had tried to motivate Owen by saying, “Why can’t you do it like she does?”

* * *

After the Wormling had gotten used to climbing down the mountain, Mordecai ran him nearly to death all the way around the island. He began at sunup and ran the sandy shores barefoot until he returned to where he started. Mordecai gave him until sundown that first day, but Owen didn’t make it until well after dark. He was exhausted and hungry, his feet aching, but Mordecai made him get up the next morning at the same time and do it again.

Pushing, always pushing, Mordecai taught Owen many things, not the least of which were endurance and patience. While Owen ran the entire island, Mordecai went across the middle and met him on the other side just to tell him how far behind he was and how many more times he would have to run this same course if he didn’t hurry. It was tempting for Owen to take a shortcut as well, but to his credit, he didn’t.

When the Wormling made it to the end as the last rays of the sun disappeared, Mordecai showed him the obstacle course he had designed. The elaborate gauntlet was filled with dangerous traps. If at any point the Wormling made a wrong move, he could badly hurt himself.

“The real Wormling will be able to do this,” Mordecai said.

All Owen could think of was what a klutz he had always been at sports, even in gym class.

The Wormling hated climbing trees the most—that is, until Mordecai discovered he couldn’t swim. He took Owen to the waterfall and shoved him into the deep pool beneath it until the Wormling was forced to learn to float and breathe and paddle. More than once, Mordecai had to shed his tunic and jump in to pull out the choking and coughing Wormling.

* * *

Watcher made it to the rapid stream down from the pool just as the Wormling whined, “How many more of these am I going to have to do to prove I’m who I say I am?”

“As many as it takes to make me believe you believe you’re who you say you are,” Mordecai bellowed, laughing. “Now try again. And be careful of the oil on the fish’s body.”

The Wormling stood in a rush of white water, struggling to keep his footing on the slippery rocks. He studied the surface, then lunged as something brown and red jumped up at him. “It hurts!”

“Of course, if you don’t do it right. That’s why they call them shock fish. They send a charge into the water when they sense danger. Again.”

As the next fish jumped, the Wormling tried to cradle it like a baby, but the effect was even worse. He danced on his toes like a barefoot man in a briar patch, yelping as the fish charged the water again and again.

Watcher could not help laughing. The Wormling must have heard her, for he turned, red faced, and rushed her. In midstream he tripped and fell on his face, which made Mordecai laugh. The Wormling arose, soaked and with red marks on his arms.

Mordecai’s laughter filled the woods. Watcher had never before heard genuine laughter from him. His guffaws echoed off the rocks.

“You think it’s so easy, Mordecai. You try it,” the Wormling said.

Mordecai knelt, leaning over the water, waiting. When the fish jumped, he shot out a massive arm and grabbed it around its middle, tossing it onto the shore. “Can’t be easier than that.”

“Not fair,” the Wormling said. “You have so many scars; you can’t feel the sting.”

Mordecai eyed the Wormling with a sour look. “My scars are none of your business.” He rose and stalked away.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” the Wormling called after him, but Mordecai kept going.

Watcher shook her head. “One moment he was laughing like a child, the next he was quiet . . .”

“. . . as a child,” the Wormling said.

“Let me try,” Watcher said, kneeling on the bank as another fish jumped. She missed the first but was able to lean down far enough to kick the second to the ground beside her. She laughed as the fish flopped and gasped. On the end of its mouth sat a shiny gray patch that glistened in the sunlight. It was this that sent the shock.

“If you got out of the water,” Watcher said, “they wouldn’t be able to sting you.”

“Grounding,” the Wormling whispered. “That’s it. When I’m in the water, I’m part of their world, but on dry ground . . .” He took his place on the bank just like Mordecai and Watcher, lunged at the first fish, and fell into the spray.

It was all Watcher could do not to fall over laughing. She helped him up, and he grabbed the next fish without getting stung, but it slipped from his hands back into the white water. He was successful with the next, tossing it onto the pile with the others.

* * *

By noon, Owen had finished catching all the shock fish they could carry, so he tore from a plant a thick frond, as big as an elephant’s ear, and stuffed all the fish inside. Watcher held one end, and they carried the heavy load to the beach near the grapevine.

Mordecai had started a fire and stuck a thin, sharp knife in a stump. “Clean the fish there.”

“I don’t know how.”

Mordecai grabbed a fish by the tail and with one slice opened the belly and spilled the insides onto the stump. That didn’t seem to bother Watcher, who had caught and eaten lots of fish, but to someone who had grown up over a bookstore and had never fished in his life, it was disgusting.

Mordecai had laid out several vegetables called brawn, which looked like cucumbers with the edible part surrounded by a shuck, like an ear of corn (without the silk). Mordecai pulled out the vegetable and placed a fish inside, then wrapped it tightly. He sent Owen to look for skolers, a potato-like vegetable that grew in the moss-covered regions of the inner forest. Mordecai wrapped these in the skin of the brawn and put them in the fire next to the wrapped fish.

They rested in the shade while the meal cooked, Mordecai evidently content to let Owen have an afternoon off. Owen already felt the difference in his body, a strength that started in his feet and ran through his legs, all the way up to his neck. His arms had become stronger too from doing chin-ups in the trees.

If he went back to school in his own world now, Owen wondered whether he would be able to handle Gordan and his crowd without help from the invisible force.

The slow-cooking fish and vegetables smelled delicious, but as Mordecai and Watcher dozed, Owen felt restless. He wandered toward the waterfall, where a huge jargid crossed his path, waddling toward the water, apparently unaware of Owen. Usually the animals sensed humans and fled, but Owen stalked the animal as Mordecai had taught him. He grabbed its tail, making the animal shriek and run. Mordecai would have wanted Owen to kill and skin it, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill more than they needed.

Hungry as he was, Owen knew if he just waited for the meal he would be crazy with anticipation. He waded into the shallow pool where the stream flattened out and watched the cascading water. He couldn’t have conceived of a place so beautiful, so full of life, so wild, so dangerous, and he wished he could share it with someone, someone like Clara Secrest back home. They had talked only a couple of times, but there seemed to be a sharing of their souls, a connection Owen couldn’t get over.

The sun was slowly making its way down the other side of afternoon when Owen noticed something in the waterfall he hadn’t seen before—a break in the white water, a blackness behind it. He moved closer and reached into the falls to feel the powerful surge. The sound and the coldness combined with the force of the splash on the rocks made him feel like he was visiting some place from his past, some echo he had never heard.

Owen moved onto the rocky path behind the waterfall between the rushing water and the face of the wall. Looking out through the sheet of water into the sun-drenched stillness of the island reminded Owen he was in a whole new world. The island took on an even more surreal tone, as if it existed only in some artist’s mind.

He inched along, his back to the wall, careful of snakes or anything else that might slither along these slippery rocks. Suddenly, as if the wall behind him had moved, he backed into an opening, turned around, and found himself enveloped by a dense blackness. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Owen saw he had entered another cave.

Curious, he moved along a narrow corridor, the rocks so close together that he thought he had come to the end. But just beyond the narrow passage, the cave opened into a wide expanse. He had the same feeling as when he had discovered his father’s secret underground hideout, but here there were no torches on the wall nor any stone staircases.

The floor was damp and trickles of water dripped, echoing. A pinpoint of light came from above or Owen would not have been able to see a thing. He cautiously stepped deeper into the cave until he came to a long stone table. On it sat a long padlocked chest and what looked like finely woven robes of velvet.

Owen was scanning the area for a key when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned, holding his breath, unable to speak, facing the dim outline of a face.

“So you really are the Wormling then.”

The voice was Mordecai’s. He rested a hand on each of Owen’s shoulders as if to calm him, then moved toward the table. “You found the secret stash. I figured it would take you a lot longer. This was to be your final test—finding this place.”

“What is all this?”

“Remnants of the attack on the King’s castle. Garments stolen. Some of the looted treasure.”

Owen stepped back. This was why Mordecai had been exiled? He had stolen from the King? “You brought this?”

Mordecai shook his head. “I found it here, along with the key.” He ran a hand along the padlock. “Perhaps hidden by whoever attacked the castle. Perhaps by someone else.”

“What’s in the chest?”

“Coins. Parchments. Records of the King’s family—those who survived the fire. And one other item that should interest you.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Sword of the Wormling.”

“I get a sword?”

“Since you do not battle only against flesh and blood, your weapons are often of the mind and the heart. The Book of the King tells you all you need for battling evil. But there will come times when you need to wield a physical sword.” Mordecai unlocked the padlock and removed it. From within the chest he pulled a long sword.

Owen could tell from the glow of it under just the pinprick of light that it would gleam like the noonday sun outside, but we will not add anything to this story that would not make sense to a rational reader like yourself. Suffice it to say that it looked magical.

The handle sported the head of a lion in full roar, the rest wrapped in thick leather up to the blade, where all the design and pomp ended. It was simply two sharpened edges that ran to a pointed tip. Even in Mordecai’s massive hands and strong arms, Owen could tell it was heavy.

“Take it and learn quickly,” Mordecai said. “Your time is nearly at hand.”

Owen grasped the sword, feeling as if something missing from his life had suddenly returned. All fears, all questions faded with the great weapon in his hands. It was too heavy to maneuver now, but he was already stronger than when he had arrived, and he would grow stronger still.

He couldn’t wait to show it to Watcher.

Mordecai removed the coin boxes and other heavy items, then carried the chest back to the fire, where Watcher was tending a fresh roasting of skolers and fish. Owen followed with the huge sword, which seemed to render Watcher speechless. She just stared at it and at Owen.

Owen left the sword with her when he moved to the water to wash up. When he returned, Watcher was looking at herself in the reflection of the blade. She seemed fascinated with her face, opening her mouth, looking at her teeth, and pulling a tuft of fur from over her left eye.

“You need a mirror, not a sword,” Owen said.

“What’s a mirror?” Watcher said, sticking out her tongue and moving it from side to side.

Now famished, Owen finally sat with his mouth watering. He had eaten only breakfast and lunch each day on the island, snacking on pineapple or coconut milk to keep his strength up. That had made him stronger and leaner. He had more stamina and grew faster and more agile every day.

Mordecai skewered the fish and skolers and removed them from the fire. He pulled a green fruit from his pocket, sliced it with his knife, and squeezed the juice onto the fish. He poured coconut milk onto the skolers and let it soak in until the milk bubbled, then put all the food back on the fire. He rubbed his hands on his tunic and opened the chest. “I need to show you something.”

Owen sniffed at the chest. It still smelled of the smoke that had permeated the scorched papers and jewelry.

Watcher picked up a gold necklace and gasped, “It’s beautiful.”

“It belonged to the Queen,” Mordecai said. He took if from her with his scarred hand. The necklace matched the color of Watcher’s fur, but its beauty made Mordecai’s red scars look even more hideous.

Owen took it and held it up to the sunlight. It had become darkened by soot, but Owen was still impressed to actually be holding a piece of jewelry owned by a queen. “How do you know it was hers?”

“I just know.”

Owen put the necklace back in the chest and took out a watch.

Again, Watcher was agog. “What is that?”

“A timepiece,” Mordecai said. “It tells you how far the sun tracks across the sky each day and then the moon at night.”

Owen thought that was an interesting way to explain a watch. “I have the same thing on my arm. Only it doesn’t have hands, just numbers.”

Watcher examined the black digital watch on his arm, which had become dirtier the more he trained. It was one of the few connections with his world, other than his clothes and his backpack. And the book. Always the book.

Owen pulled from the chest promissory notes, papers that said a certain person owed the King money. There were also forgiven debts, people for whom the King had canceled the money they owed.

“Seems like a pretty nice guy,” Owen said. “He sure helped a lot of people.”

“He was the best,” Mordecai muttered.

“So who do you think hid this in the cave?”

“I don’t know,” Mordecai said. “Perhaps someone trying to put all the pieces of the King’s life back together. His plan. He was a man of ideas, always sifting information, anticipating events.”

Owen wondered how Mordecai knew so much about the King, but he wasn’t ready to ask. “It wasn’t just a thief then, stashing the loot?”

“Oh no. Think, Wormling. A thief would have long since sold the coins. And the sword and the jewelry would claim quite a price too, from the right buyer. No, whoever stashed all this was probably looking for something. Or someone. A clue to the whereabouts of the King, perhaps. Or maybe something about the King’s Son.”

“Maybe they wanted to lure someone here,” Watcher said. Owen and Mordecai looked up at her, and she stepped back. “You know, as bait. Maybe they thought the Wormling would come here at some point, and they could do him harm or worse. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mordecai coughed. “Pardon me, but I hadn’t thought of that. It shows you’re . . . thinking quickly and with a good head.”

“Well, you needn’t appear so amazed. Excuse me if I’m feeling less than appreciated.” She strutted off in a huff.

“Watcher, come back,” Owen said. “It’s almost time to eat and you’ll like this. Please.”

But she had already disappeared into the jungle.

Owen rose to go after her, but Mordecai put a hand on his arm. “We’ve offended her somehow. Give her time.” He retrieved a fish from the fire and examined it. “You should be glad she’s accompanying you. She really does have a good mind—and not just for watching.”

Owen nodded and helped Mordecai remove the food. They let it cool while Owen examined a few more pages from the chest. One was burned and almost unrecognizable, but at the bottom of the page was a footprint, the kind you see on birth certificates.

Owen showed Mordecai and the man recoiled. “That is the royal certificate for the King’s Son.”

Beneath it was another, not quite as charred. “And this?”

“His sister. Gwenolyn.”

Owen flinched. “No one told me he had a sister! Perhaps she knows where her brother is.”

Mordecai sighed. “There is much to learn, Wormling. Not just about the sword and how to work with Watcher. I fear for your future.”

Owen’s shoulders slumped. “Why does this have to be so complicated? I really believed I could simply find the King’s Son, he would unite the worlds, and I could go back home.”

“You will need to go back. That’s certain.”

“Why?”

Mordecai shook his head. “There is much to tell. Let me show you something. Wait here.” He climbed the vine to his cave with surprising agility and quickness for such a large man.

The sun was setting now, the smell of the food overwhelming. Owen couldn’t resist opening the frond and picking off a white piece of fish. The taste exploded in Owen’s mouth. He couldn’t wait to dive in.

Soon Mordecai returned, the vine creaking under his weight. He held a parchment similar to the one containing the initiation ceremony, but Owen could tell it was much different.

“Your presence here means something is happening in the invisible world,” Mordecai said, “and in your world as well.”

“That’s what Bardig said.”

Mordecai handed Owen the fish and skolers, along with a crude fork. “He was correct.” Mordecai ate with his fingers and downed the fish in three bites.

“I can’t read this,” Owen said.

“These are orders intercepted from the Dragon. Special orders for his elite troops. It talks of the truce between the King and the invisible kingdom. It confirms rumors of talks between the Dragon and the King. Whether it was face-to-face I don’t know.”

“Can there be a truce with a being such as the Dragon? He doesn’t seem like the kind who would keep his word.”

Mordecai nodded. “I wouldn’t trust the Dragon to live up to any agreement that called for his doing less than controlling both worlds as well as the invisible realm.”

Mordecai took a bite of skoler and closed his eyes as if the taste had transported him. He licked his fingers and spoke with his mouth full. “The Dragon, it says, was prepared to sign the treaty of peace between the two worlds, but the agreement calls for his delivering the two ‘packages’ wrapped and intact. This can mean only one thing.”

“The Dragon had the King’s children kidnapped.”

“Exactly.”

“But why? Couldn’t the Dragon have just killed the children?”

“Yes, quite possible. Probable even. But it strikes me that the Dragon wanted these two alive for his own purposes. They give him leverage to make a different deal with the King, perhaps.”

Owen studied the scroll. “Where did you get this? It wasn’t in the chest, was it?”

Mordecai popped the rest of a skoler in his mouth and stared at Owen. “What does it matter where I got it? I have it today.”

“Where would the Dragon have taken the children, Mordecai?”

“No one knows, of course. This may be why the King disappeared. He conducted a search of the kingdom himself, checking every hamlet.”

“But The Book of the King says the Son is in prison, so we know that much.”

“Read it to me.”

Owen dug the book from his pack, and as he began reading, Mordecai closed his eyes and a smile crossed his lips. The words seemed to bring him life, like a man dying of thirst given a goblet of the best drink in the land.

When Owen read that the Son would one day save both worlds and unite them, Mordecai finally opened his eyes. “Now I can see why you were so determined to be initiated. I have heard those words before, but they were only whispers on the wind, hope and freedom in the darkness.”

“Do you remember when there were books?” Owen said. “Do you remember what the land was like?”

Mordecai nodded. “Knowledge was esteemed. People hungered for it. They would sit and listen to stories of old as their hearts turned to fire, and they wondered if there could ever be anything as good and as nourishing as apt words. And then came the fire, the burning and looting of wisdom. It began with the books and continued with the minds of my countrymen. We no longer hunger for knowledge.”

“Your countrymen?” Owen said. “You count yourself among them, and yet you live here?”

“Are you a Wormling or a meddler?”

Owen smiled. “Maybe both.”

A sensitive being, Watcher knew there were scarier things than just invisibles. At least she could tell when one of those was coming. With the humans, she could never tell when one would anger or betray her. She’d had her doubts about the Wormling at first, thinking he was just out for himself. The death of her trusted friend Bardig had been no small thing. But gradually she had come to trust the Wormling and believe he truly wanted to help his own world and hers achieve wholeness, as the book said.

But as soon as the Wormling had begun his training, Watcher sensed a change. Owen was becoming more aware of himself, more sure, more capable. He learned to swim. When she saw him with his sword, her stomach turned. She was losing him to a world of battle and crusades that could take him in any direction.

It was during these lonely times that Watcher sought solace in her hammock at the end of the island. Mordecai seemed so wrapped up in the initiation training that it seemed he, too, wanted her to fade into the background, seen but not heard.

And so she did fade, for a time, becoming a mere spectator actually taking delight in some of the exercises. One of her favorites had been at the hissing stones near the bridge that had been torn apart. In a shallow pool at the end of a lagoon lay a mist-enshrouded spot where water bubbled with heat from under the earth. Watcher did not believe this water could really be hot when the ocean was so cool, but one leg into the pond convinced her.

The Wormling’s task had been to make it from one side of the pond to the other without falling in. Mordecai instructed the Wormling to study the water and traverse it barefooted when ready. The Wormling took his time—too careful for Watcher’s taste—planning each step.

Watcher became so frustrated with the Wormling that she stepped in front of him and bounced over the rocks with ease, sure-footed and confident. Mordecai had laughed, but the Wormling had not. Especially when he nearly fell.

Enamored with Mordecai’s attention, Watcher made a return trip, but at the next-to-last rock, something hot shot up her back and she screamed, falling.

Mordecai howled, and Watcher did not appreciate the laughter at her expense. The Wormling tried to help her up, but she would have nothing to do with him. She watched from a distance as he went back and forth over the rocks, even anticipating the gusts of steam.

“Good,” Mordecai had said. “Excellent. Now we will try it again, only this time blindfolded.”

To Watcher’s surprise, the Wormling almost made the trip successfully. Almost. Near the edge, the steam zapped him from behind and he fell into the hot water. She had laughed hysterically, but that seemed to make him all the more determined.

Now, as she lay in the hammock watching the stars begin to appear, her stomach growled at the thought of the fish and skolers and brawn. She was the one missing out on the feast, not them. They probably didn’t even miss her.

Watcher thought of her family, the meals her mother used to cook, the way her father relished each morsel and complimented the woman. Watcher closed her eyes and remembered the laughter, the love, and a pain struck deep in her heart—pain of loneliness and fear at the loss of both parents. She would never see them again, at least not in this life.

In that hammock, swinging gently with the wind, Watcher decided to return home. She would make a skiff of her own, and she had enough jargid skins and oil left that she could slather herself and keep safe from the Kerrol.

The Wormling did not need her any longer. He wouldn’t even miss her. He could go on his one-man crusade, find the King’s Son, and be the hero of both worlds without her help. She was sure of it.

Her mind filled with these thoughts until her ears twitched and her body went rigid. Something was coming. Something terrible.

Owen removed his heavy pack and set it down as he ate by the fire. “Why would I have to go back to my world to fulfill my mission?”

“The prophecy,” Mordecai said. “Are not the four portals included?”

“Yes, it says that when they have been breached—”

“And who can breach the portals but a Wormling? Who has the power?”

Owen let another bite of fish lie on his tongue, enjoying the taste. He couldn’t remember enjoying a meal as much. “There is so much to do. So much to remember. What if I make a mistake? What if I fail?”

Mordecai grinned. “You are not alone, Wormling. There is more to your journey than simply your efforts and the efforts of those who travel with you.” He leaned back in the sand and put his hands behind his head. “I am hardly one to speak about such things, but there is purpose even in the mistakes.”

“Sir?”

“Do you think it was a mistake that Bardig’s life was taken?”

“It was a tragedy.”

“Of course, but was it a mistake? Were the consequences of his death—the confrontation with his son and the flood in the Valley of Shoam—all blunders?”

Owen thought a moment. “I believe I was brought here for a purpose, and that purpose included meeting Bardig. But it also included Dreadwart and the terrible . . .” He shivered. “I don’t even like to think about it.”

“Oh, but you must. For your quest has as much to do with what’s up here”—Mordecai pointed to his head—“as it does here”—he pointed to his heart—“and here.” He spread his hands to encompass the island. “Do you really believe there was a clear purpose for your presence here? Until you believe it with everything in you—your mind, your heart, and the hands that will hold the sword—you cannot truly embrace what you must do.”

“I have to believe the death of Bardig was part of the plan? How could something so awful result in any kind of good?”

“It brought you here, didn’t it?” Mordecai said.

“And through dangerous waters and past the Badlands . . .” Owen looked at the sky, a thousand thoughts filling him. “Erol. His clan. I would never have met them if it hadn’t been for Bardig’s death.”

“Yes, yes. And no doubt things happened to you in the other world that were equally distasteful, that you wished you could change, but they happened for some purpose. Perhaps the Lowlands will benefit from one of those.”

“If I hadn’t run from Gordan, I wouldn’t have felt the arm in the night.”

“Excuse me?”

Owen told him what had happened; then his mind turned, as minds are wont to do, and he directed Mordecai’s words back to the man himself. “If what you say is true, there is a purpose in everything that happens, good or bad.”

“We see good and bad from only our own perspectives, Wormling. There is a higher perspective.”

“I see,” Owen said, as if grasping one of the shock fish and tossing it Mordecai’s way. “Then whatever brought you here, whatever gave you those scars and made you want to be eaten by the Kerrol, all that was part of the plan as well. All of that had purpose.”

Mordecai’s mouth dropped. “You are a meddler, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to understand. If your words are true, they are true for both of us.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“You yourself said there is purpose even in the mistakes.”

“And I live with them every day.”

“But do you embrace them, Mordecai? Do you see that they sent you here, brought us together, and allowed you to find the stolen chest and the birth documents and the Queen’s jewelry?”

Owen had not seen Mordecai look so disgruntled since their first meeting when he nearly cut the vine. “What do you know?” Mordecai snapped. “If it hadn’t been for me, none of what happened to you would ever have taken place. Why, I—”

Owen was sitting forward, eager to hear the secrets, the awful things that had made Mordecai an exile, when a powerful wind every bit as devastating as the waves in the ocean swept over him. It nearly sucked him off the ground and was accompanied by the violent rustling of leaves in the bushes near the beach trail.

“Visibles!” Watcher shouted. “Scythe flyers!”

“To the cave!” Mordecai yelled, closing the chest and putting it under his arm.

Owen grabbed the sword and followed Mordecai to the vine.

“There’s no time!” Watcher screamed. “They’re on top of us!”

Mordecai was already 20 feet off the ground, his big hands taking in yards of vine as he scaled the wall like a stepladder.

Owen leaped to the vine just as the huge tail of a scythe flyer appeared above the trees. The massive wings eclipsed the moon, and the horrifying screams of the animal made Owen cringe.

Owen was only a few feet up the wall when another flyer slashed his tail across the vine above Mordecai, cutting it like a hot knife through a ripe brawn. Owen looked up in time to see Mordecai grab in vain at smooth rocks and tumble backward, the giant man’s backside blotting out the sky as it hurtled toward him.

“No!” Watcher yelled, darting from the bushes, her momentum carrying her into Owen and knocking him to the ground just as Mordecai landed with a terrific thud in the sand. The chest landed next to his head.

The man sat up, gasping, leaving a huge indentation in the sand. Gaining a little air, he struggled to his feet and retrieved the chest.

“So, what was the purpose of that?” Owen asked Mordecai.

“Sometimes . . . the only purpose we can see . . . is to run . . . and survive. Now let’s do it.”

The three ran into the jungle just as another scythe flyer skimmed the trees. Owen thrust up his sword, but the tail clanged on it and knocked him to the ground.

“Don’t worry, Wormling!” Mordecai said. “There will be time to fight these beasts!”

“I thought you said these were invisibles,” Owen yelled at Watcher.

“No, I clearly said visibles!”

Something smacked Owen from behind and sent him sprawling, the sword plopping into a stream. The sword began to smoke, and at first Owen feared it was disintegrating. Instead, it was producing a covering for them.

“Pick it up!” Mordecai yelled. “Head for the waterfall!”

I’m sorry I wasn’t here to warn you,” Watcher said, catching her breath inside the cave behind the falls.

“Yes, where were you?” Owen said.

Watcher looked away.

“Can they get in here, Mordecai?” Owen said.

“They hate the water, and the smallness of the opening will deter them,” Mordecai said. “I’ve never had them attack like that.” He put a hand in the small of his back and stretched, grimacing. “Probably smelled our dinner. Can’t blame them.”

“Your pack, Wormling!” Watcher said.

“Oh no! The book! I left it out there!”

In a flash, Watcher was out of the cave, shooting through the waterfall and the lagoon, Owen not far behind. He held his sword high, and steam poured from it as he ran through the shallows and the forests, trying to keep up.

Owen’s training kicked in, and he felt strength in his legs and upper body from running and climbing the vine so many times. Still the sword felt heavy, but he was determined to use it if forced to.

Owen pushed through the fronds and bushes near the beach and finally stopped beside Watcher.

Someone or something was hunched over Owen’s backpack. Its back looked like a giant praying mantis with large, striated wings tucked firmly in place. It was dark, like cola, the same as a cockroach, with gnarly, elongated fingernails that resembled the claws of some wild bird. When it turned, Owen saw that the face was humanlike, with a beak nose but with aspects of an insect or a reptile. At the ends of its long, sticklike arms were sharp pincers. Its eyes were huge and round with thousands of hexagonal segments. It tilted its head at Owen and Watcher, as if studying them. Owen swore he heard a zoom lens and a click.

Most frightening, it held The Book of the King in one of its talons. Owen slowly raised his sword and pointed it at the being.

It simply stared, cocking its head the other way. Finally it spoke in a high-pitched, nasally tone that sounded like scratches and screeches. “So, it is true. The Wormling exists.”

“Give me the book,” Owen said with an authority that surprised even him.

The being chuckled, which sounded more like a whistling snort. It swung the book around behind its body, and two fangs protruding from the roof of its mouth dripped green liquid onto its lips. “You have something His Majesty requires. I have come to retrieve it.”

“The King?” Owen said.

“The Dragon,” Mordecai said, emerging from the foliage. “This is one of his minions. His RHM.”

“Ah, Mordecai,” the being said, hissing. “You should treat me with more respect.”

“Respect for one who would kill, steal, and destroy? You are in league with the chief murderer and thief.”

The eyes of the monster turned red as he moved away from the fire.

Owen held the sword at arm’s length, shaking as he pointed it.

“Be careful of the venom,” Mordecai whispered. “He can shoot it a great distance. One drop will kill a grown man.”

“Do I detect jealousy?” the monster said as Mordecai, Owen, and Watcher slowly separated. “That I am now chief handler of the most powerful being above or below is no reason to slander me or His Highness.”

“I do not envy one destined to lose,” Mordecai said, still moving. “And how does one slander a being with no character and no backbone?”

RHM laughed anew. “For being so spineless, someone seems to have left an indelible mark on your mind as well as your body.” The monster twitched his nose, and Watcher screamed as the venom shot.

Mordecai barely lunged out of the way. “Don’t attack, Wormling! His venom is too potent.”

Owen’s arms were becoming leaden. “What about the book?” he said, focused on the monster.

“We can retrieve the other copy,” Mordecai said. “Let him be.”

“There is no other copy, and you know it,” RHM said.

“What does the Dragon want with it?” Owen said.

“Maybe he wants it for the same reason you do,” the being said, now holding it in front of him. “Does the little Wormling want his precious book back? Come and get it!”

“Wormling, no!” Mordecai snapped.

“Don’t waste your energy on this beast,” Watcher snarled.

“Come, Wormling. His Majesty would be delighted to make your acquaintance. I can take you there now, and you can read the book on the way. Perhaps you can convince him to make some kind of treaty with—”

“There can be no treaty with a prince of lies!” Mordecai shouted.

“Silence! You must not talk about His Majesty that way!” The being again shot his venom, and the plants and trees it hit immediately shriveled and died.

The air was suddenly disturbed, and RHM looked up with a start, giving Owen his chance. The Wormling charged with his sword, knowing he had thoroughly surprised the monster. But just as he heaved the weapon back to strike, Watcher screamed and a scythe flyer split the air. The flyer blocked Owen’s swing, sending the sword whirling through the air like a windmill.

RHM hovered over the ground, his massive wings spread like a tent behind him. Teeth dripping again, the monster said, “Now, Wormling, you will see who loses the battle—”

Mordecai roared, “You know the prophecy! You know what will happen if you so much as touch a hair of the Wormling’s head.”

The being seethed as venom dripped from his horrid fangs. “There are ways to get to the Wormling, Mordecai. And we will succeed. Just as we succeeded with the one you know so well.”

Mordecai gritted his teeth.

The being rose wildly, thrusting his wings in the air, holding tight to the book.

“What prophecy, Mordecai?” Owen said. “Why can’t he kill me?”

“Neither the Dragon nor his right-hand man may touch the Wormling.”

“Or what?”

“No one knows. It was a secret agreement between the beast and the King.”

As RHM soared away, Mordecai spliced new vines to the one hanging along the rocks. Once they were safely inside the cave, Owen collapsed on his jargid skins, as dejected and low as he had been since he had come to the Lowlands.

“Do not despair, Wormling,” Mordecai said.

“Mr. Page charged me to protect that book with my life! And Mucker is inside that book. When the Dragon discovers him . . .” Owen’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Without the book, what do we have?”

Mordecai sat at the foot of Owen’s makeshift bed. “The book itself is not as important as how much of the book is in you.”

“I haven’t even read all of it yet, let alone allowed it to penetrate me. He’ll destroy it, and I’ll never find the King’s Son.”

“Remember, nothing happens that cannot be used for good. The power of the book remains, even when it is not present.”

“Can that be?”

Mordecai smiled. “Our final phase of training begins tomorrow. Rest, Wormling.”

“How can I when Mucker is on his way to the Dragon’s lair?”

Mordecai slipped a hand into the pocket of his tunic. “Oh, I thought you might like to see what I found on the ground out there.”

In Mordecai’s palm sat a small white worm whose teeth were growing back.

Mucker looked as thrilled to see Owen as Owen was to see him. He tucked Mucker in beside him and fell asleep. And even unconscious, Owen found The Book of the King was still with him.

As it has always been, so shall it ever be. The King is on his throne and is in control.

Owen wrote as much of The Book of the King as he could remember during his spare time over the next few days, jotting thoughts and phrases and stories. Watcher helped jog his memory, staying close. It seemed she had a new resolve to stick with him, no matter what the cost.

Spare time was hard to find, however, as Mordecai kept to his word about the final phase of training: really learning the sword.

“Will the Dragon destroy the book, Mordecai?”

“How can he destroy something held so deep in the heart that even a sword would not be able to separate its thoughts and intents?”

Mordecai took Owen into the inner recesses of the cave, through a small passage that led down an entire level to a circular room with just enough space for Mordecai to use a stick to parry with Owen.

“Mordecai, what is this indentation at the top of the blade?”

“The bloodline.” He drove his dagger into a melon and tossed it to Owen. “Pull it out,” Mordecai said.

Owen pulled, but he had to put the melon on the floor between his feet to get the dagger out.

“You want to be able to pull your sword out of your enemy and continue, not have to put your foot on him like a melon.” Mordecai took the sword from Owen and had him toss the melon into the air. “The bloodline enables you to plunge the blade in,” he said, catching the melon on the end of the sword. “Then you simply dip the blade, like this, and pull it out, resuming the battle.”

Mordecai tossed the sword to Owen, who easily caught it by the hilt. Mordecai swung his long stick at his young friend. “Fight.”

When Owen first began swordplay, he had flailed and jerked, trying to avoid Mordecai’s stick. His battle was defensive, sometimes even running around the room. But the more he practiced and imitated Mordecai, the more he found that by simply turning his wrist or moving one foot, he could gain the upper hand.

Mordecai also threw things at him, including scalding water, and Owen learned to deflect or elude it. Within two weeks he was able to swing the sword as quickly as Mordecai swung his much-lighter stick.

When Owen finally knocked the stick from Mordecai’s hand and brought the tip of the sword inches from the man’s neck, he believed he was ready.

“Well done, Wormling. But you have more to learn about your weapon. Besides its ability to create a mist covering when it touches water, it can, with a word of encouragement, fly to your hand from quite a distance. Imagine the advantage of this in a crisis.”

Owen tried calling the sword but missed when it flew near him. Once it knocked him down. Another time he missed the hilt and nearly grabbed the blade.

“The sword also has healing qualities,” Mordecai said. “The ultimate goal of a weapon is peace. Good triumphing over evil. Destruction is not your main goal but health and wholeness. Those who fight you oppose those ideals.” Mordecai wielded his stick again. “Fight.”

Owen warded off numerous jousts, and when he saw an opening, he drove the sword down at an angle. Instead of blocking it, Mordecai stepped into the blade and it sliced through his sleeve to his arm.

“I’m sorry!” Owen said.

“No, it’s all right,” the man said, wincing, blood flowing. “Now put the side of the blade here.”

Owen did, and when he took the sword away, not so much as a scratch or a drop of blood remained on Mordecai’s arm.

“What? How?” Owen said.

“Ask the one who forged it,” Mordecai said.

Mordecai led Owen and Watcher to a clearing he had prepared at the end of the island. He simmered several jargid over a fire, along with shock fish and skolers.

As twilight approached, and with waves crashing along the shoreline, Owen knelt in the sand by a swaying palmetto, where Mordecai touched both his shoulders with the sword, conferring on him the full rights and responsibilities of a Wormling in the Lowlands.

“And, Watcher, I charge you to act and speak in a manner worthy of a Wormling’s aide. The trust he has put in you is sacred. May you live up to his calling.”

Mordecai stood on a rock and lifted his voice above the night sounds. He read the scroll in lilting tones in its original language, which sounded as if it had come from heaven itself.

After each sentence, he translated. “The Wormling is called as protector and warrior on behalf of the King. It is his sacred duty to follow the King’s wishes and do as he bids. This trust is bestowed upon you not because you have been deemed worthy, but because you have been chosen.”

The word chosen rang through Owen’s body like a low note on some magical instrument. All his life he had felt like an outcast, a person on the fringe, rarely included in games, anything but part of the “in” crowd. But here, in a quiet spot on an island in another world, he not only felt part of the plan but was also welcomed. Chosen. Important. Years of reading and soaking up the stories of great writers had helped prepare him for this moment.

“Look not to the left or right from the narrow path prepared for you. Study the words of the King to show yourself approved, a Wormling ready to battle, to heal, to find, to rescue. May your efforts cause the King’s enemies to stumble and fall, while his friends become your friends.”

As Mordecai read, his voice broke. “And remember that wherever your journey leads, there will be one who never takes his eye from you, never leaves you alone, and will always be with you.”

Mordecai bade Owen to rise, and when he did he felt different. He had wondered why the initiation had to take place at all, but now, after the training and the commission, he knew.

Mordecai instructed him to say whatever came to his mind, and something wonderful happened. In class after class Owen had despaired of even answering a question from the teacher, let alone addressing the class. His hands shook, his face burned, and his back was soaked with perspiration.

But now Owen placed the sword in its scabbard, a new dark brown tunic wrapped around his shoulders, sporting a hood. Gazing at the golden horizon and his two friends, he said, “There is no place in this world or the other I would rather be than right here, right now. And there is no destination I’d want to reach than where my King—though I have never met him—sends me.

“You have taught me much, Mordecai. You have been faithful and true, and I can only hope that what you have taught has freed you from much of your past.

“And to you, Watcher, my friend and companion, I pray that one day you and I will be greeted by the King himself and that our friendship will never wane—that together we will find the Son, the prophecy will be fulfilled, and we will see the day of deliverance for both worlds.

“Where two or three follow the King, there the spirit of the King dwells richly.”

“Long live the King,” Mordecai said.

“Long may he reign,” Owen said, reaching for the bearded man’s hand.

Watcher lifted her hoof atop the two hands and seemed to search for something to say. She finally settled on, “Let’s eat.”

The three ate their fill, with their bare feet (and hooves) buried in the sand as the moon rose. Watcher soon fell asleep, but Owen was so excited he wondered if he would ever sleep again.

“Where will we go first?” Owen said. “You must have an idea.”

Mordecai looked sad. “I will not be accompanying you, Wormling.”

Owen sat up so quickly that he made Watcher stir. “We’re much stronger together, Mordecai. You must come.”

“Walk with me.”

They moved up the beach, just out of reach of the tides. “Can’t I command you to come? Now that I’m a fully commissioned Wormling?”

“You could, but you won’t. You were chosen because this Mr. Page you speak of saw in you a heart of compassion. You won’t force me.”

“But we have the same goal, the same mind, the same heart.”

“I have scars, Wormling.”

“I no longer see them. I don’t even think about them. You are my friend and my mentor.”

“But the scars remain and not just the physical ones.”

Owen put a hand on Mordecai’s shoulder. “If you won’t join us, at least tell me what happened. I need to understand.”

Mordecai threw a stone into the surf. “I suppose I owe you that.”

They walked on until Mordecai finally turned and faced the water, which reflected the night sky. “My parents were killed by the Dragon, leaving me a halfling passed from family to family in the village until one day the King and his wife rode through in a carriage. I had been left alone that day and sat watching the procession. The King inquired whose child I was, and someone told him the story. The King and his wife had compassion on me and agreed to take me in—to work at the castle. I worked in the stables, but the good lady insisted I be taught to read and write.”

“The Queen herself?”

Mordecai nodded. “I learned from the best teachers in the land, and as I grew, the King took me under his wing as one of his own. I still remember walking the fields in the early morning dew, hunting fowl or rabbits, and coming across a den of jargid. He knew how much I loved the meat and would let me eat as much as I wanted from his table.

“When I was old enough, he sent me away to train as a warrior. And then an officer. And finally, he trained me himself, showing me some of what I have shown you. I was named captain of the guard, highest officer in the castle, and given the task—” Mordecai picked up another stone and flung it farther in the water. He paced in the sand, running a rough hand through his unruly hair.

“What task?” Owen said.

“Of protecting his wife and children first. I was to protect him too, though he did not need my help; he was so capable a warrior. But he would go on trips—to attend councils or to make treaties. It was while he was away on one of those trips that the castle was attacked. I wish we had had your Watcher. Quickly and without mercy, a fire erupted in the royal chamber.

“I did not hear the cries of the Queen and her children, because I had fallen asleep from too much wine. When I finally awoke and staggered into the room, flames had engulfed the netting over the crib and the boy was crying. I threw myself into the fire, grabbing the boy. But no sooner had I done this than I was hit from behind by a blast of fire. I threw up this hand to protect me, while cradling the Son. I awoke in the infirmary, bandaged. The Queen had survived the attack, but both the boy and the girl were gone. Stolen.”

“Was the Son burned like you?”

Mordecai shook his head. “I don’t know. All I remember is his face. Cherubic, like an angel’s. Soft eyes that bored a hole through you, just like his father’s.”

“You did all you could, Mordecai.”

“I should have been alert enough to prevent the attack. If I hadn’t let them down, the King would be with his children, and the Queen would still be in her castle.”

“What happened to her?”

Mordecai bowed his head. “I left in the night as soon as I could walk. As I wandered, I heard rumors that the King and Queen had searched for their children. Eventually the castle was restored, and the King sent out spies to continue looking for them.”

“Did you ever return?”

“I could never show my face to him again. He had put his trust in me, giving me full access to all he had—his lands, his hunting grounds, a home for my family . . .”

“You have a family?”

“Had,” Mordecai said, raising a hand, and Owen knew this was not a safe topic. “All he asked was that I protect his family.” He paused. “I would love to see what the boy looks like now.”

“One day you will, if we can be sure the Son is still alive.”

Mordecai sighed. “I feel it to the very marrow of my bones that he is. If he is not, what hope have we?”

“I also feel something deep inside, Mordecai.” Owen unsheathed his sword and Mordecai stood back. “I feel that if the King were here right now, he would forgive you. He would tell you that he loves you.” Owen laid the blade against Mordecai’s heart. “He would bid you to come back and fight with him. Search with him. To let him heal the wounds you have suffered so long.”

Mordecai looked at the ground. “The sword’s power to heal does not extend to wounds of the heart.”

“Come with us, Mordecai. Fight with us.”

Mordecai hung his head and walked down the beach.

Owen waited until the moon reached its zenith, and Watcher joined him, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

With Mucker tucked safely inside the initiation scroll, Watcher and Owen prepared for their journey off the island. One of Owen’s training exercises had been to cut down a huge tree with a small ax. That came in handy, and Owen quickly fashioned a canoe from the fallen tree.

After a long, tight, tearful embrace of Mordecai, Owen and Watcher rubbed on jargid oil and put skins of the putrid animal in their new craft to ward off the Kerrol, then launched on the early morning tides from the south side of the island. Twice the beast slithered to the surface through the mists, and Owen wished it would get close enough for him to test his sword. But as if he had long since learned his lesson, both times the Kerrol plunged back into the depths with a kerthunk.

As Owen rowed he thought of Mordecai, and the more he thought, the sadder he became. The Book of the King contained many passages on forgiveness and restoration and said it was the glory of a King to overlook a mistake. Owen was sure the King still loved Mordecai and didn’t hold his offense against him. Clearly Mordecai had never forgiven himself. Owen guessed it would take a visit from the King himself to free the man from his regrettable past.

Owen was soon glad to be back on the mainland, not surrounded by water, the canoe hidden in sea grass. His sense of mission—to find the King’s Son so he could unite the two worlds and free the people—drove him.

His destination was the Son’s prison, wherever he was held. Mordecai had offered several guesses as to where he might be, leaving Owen to dream restlessly every night, often awakening sweating and out of breath. Always it was the same: A young man in tattered, royal robes sat in the dungeon of some isolated stone prison, his hair and fingernails growing to enormous lengths. Watchmen on the walls bore hideous, scaly, horned faces. Torches lit every entrance. In his dream Owen got as far as the barred window that allowed him to see the Son just before he was discovered. He raced from the fortress, pursued on foot, on horseback, and in the air.

Owen was now in search of the prison—or one similar to it—of his dreams. As he and Watcher reached rocky soil, several musicians of Erol leaped from trees and high rocks, alighting all around them.

Owen grinned. “Friends!”

But it quickly became apparent that the musicians were not smiling. Was it possible they didn’t recognize him? thought he was a trespasser? They surrounded and subdued Owen and Watcher before he even thought of defending himself. Two lugged his heavy sword to a cliff and pitched it down a ravine, where he heard it clanging on its way.

Soon Erol himself emerged.

“Why do you look at me that way, old friend?” Owen said.

The man’s eyes were not filled with hatred but with tears. He pulled a dagger from his tunic, his fist clenched around it so tight that his knuckles were white. “I’m sorry, Wormling,” he said, clearly unable to meet Owen’s gaze, “but I must kill you.”

Erol leaned close and whispered, “I must cut out your heart and give it to the Dragon. He has invaded. I have one chance to restore what I have known and loved all these years.”

“What happened?” Owen said.

“The demon flyers attacked our young ones picnicking in the glen. They took a dozen and carried them toward the Badlands. They have announced that your heart is the ransom.”

“But I can help you get them back. Killing me will only mean you lose them forever.”

Erol shook his head. “Their leader, a most hideous creature, said our children would die unless we did as he commanded. We are to kill the Wormling and present his heart to the Dragon. He held out The Book of the King and said it was written that you would die by our hands—”

“He lied!” Watcher screamed, her voice echoing through the valley.

Owen nodded. “The truth is not in him,” he said quietly. “The enemy seeks to make us fight those we love rather than our true enemies. If he divides us—”

“I cannot risk losing my children!” Erol said, moaning as he raised the dagger. “We must place your heart high upon the rock where he can see it.”

Owen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and raised his voice. “Sword!”

From the ravine came a clang and a whirring.

Owen spread his legs and shook off the musicians, grabbing the sword from the air. “The fate of your children and the kingdom depends on me.”

Erol looked taken aback by both Owen’s strength and his voice. The little man quickly held the dagger to Watcher’s throat. “Consent or your friend dies.”

Watcher’s eyes darted and Owen heard her whimper.

“I promise on my life I will get your children back,” Owen said. “But you must listen to me, not this being from the Dragon. He means only to devour you and your kind.”

“Our women weep,” Erol said. His voice was pitiful and weak.

“I will turn their mourning to dancing and their cries to shouts of joy. But you must—”

Before Owen could finish, Watcher tried to escape and Erol’s blade sliced her foreleg, blood pouring on the ground. “Wormling,” she gasped.

Owen stepped forward with the sword.

“Wait!” Erol said. “Do not end her life! This wound is not fatal.”

“Stand back!” Owen commanded.

Watcher wobbled, clearly weakening.

Owen pressed the sword to her wound, and immediately the cut closed, completely healed.

Erol and the others fell back.

“My power is not my own,” Owen said. “It comes from the King.”

“Our fate is in your hands, Wormling,” Erol said. “But how will you save the children? The Badlands are forbidden territory.”

“The Book of the King says, ‘Whatever you put your hand to do, do it well and do it with all your heart.’ The King will prepare the way. And he will show us the way to his Son as well.”

“We dare not doubt you, Wormling,” Erol said. “Forgive me!”

“You are forgiven. I understand.”

“Now, how can we help? Shall you take our most trained?”

Owen looked at the sky. He had been chosen, though weak and afraid. He had been entrusted with The Book of the King, though just a boy. “Was your son taken?”

“No,” Erol said. “Why?”

“I am here,” Starbuck called, bounding out from behind a rock.

Owen caught Erol’s eyes with his, eyebrows raised.

“Him?” Erol said.

Owen put an arm around the boy. “There is power and strength in the humble. Great armies are no match for the lowly, honest heart. The rulers of the darkness look on the outward appearance. The King looks at the heart. I perceive your son has the heart of a warrior.”

“I don’t know,” Erol said. “His mother would never—”

“But, Father! You must trust one such as the Wormling, who speaks with authority, though he is not much older than I!”

“While his mother and I consider it,” Erol said, “you must tell the others of your time on the islands.”

“Yes!” someone said. “Was the scarred one there?”

“With the face of a lion and the skin of a lizard?” another said.

“Who has married the Kerrol?”

“And has spawned children who roam the land?”

Owen held up a hand. “Enough! Yes, he is scarred, but all the rest is false! The King never had a truer friend.”

Erol and his wife, Kimshi, eventually emerged. She wept and sang Starbuck songs from his childhood. The boy kept telling her in hushed tones to stop, but her son would accompany a Wormling into the most dangerous region of the land, and so she carried on. Owen had never experienced the tears of a mother. He watched, fascinated, as she held Starbuck like a baby, kissing him and repeating the songs again and again.

The fathers whose children had been taken prepared to accompany the three, sharpening weapons, preparing nets for the demon flyers, and gathering supplies.

But when darkness fell, Owen stood before them. “We will take no weapons, save my sword.” He held up a hand to quiet murmurs of protest. “There will come a time when you all will be asked to join in the battle. And anyone who fights with the King will be rewarded. But this mission is a rescue, not a battle.”

“Promise our children will be returned to us,” a woman said.

“I can promise only what has been revealed. The prophecies say there will be singing and jubilation in this world and in the other when the Dragon is overthrown.”

The elders gathered around Owen, Watcher, and Starbuck and began a tune so soft and low that Owen couldn’t make out the words. The musicians sang in a glorious blend, without instruments. The notes seemed to spring from their very souls, echoing through the canyon.

When they finished, the elders placed their hands on the three.

Erol said, “Go with the urgency of the hawk. Run swiftly through the barren land. Train your eyes so that no attack from above or below will go unnoticed. And may our children be returned to us.”

“May the King grant it,” Owen said.

And the clan of Erol repeated after him.

Watcher was plainly peeved at Owen for bringing Starbuck, probably because he had not consulted her. She strode ahead of him so there was no way he could miss her feelings.

But Owen was resolute. As he had addressed the clan, a voice, still and small, told him, “Take the boy with you.”

At first Owen had resisted. How would they control such a youngling? But Owen himself had been chosen as a Wormling. Nothing qualified him to be given the charge of saving these worlds. Someone must know something about the heart of this lad.

Starbuck looked like his father, minus the rotund belly, with a long snout and a confident walk. The tender eyes were his mother’s. Owen envied the boy’s stories of the things his family did each night, saying good night and singing to each other.

Starbuck skipped and climbed along rocks. As they neared the border of the Badlands, he sidled up to Owen. “I’ve been out here before. You knew that, didn’t you?”

Owen knew nothing of the sort. “How far?”

He pointed. “Past the Valley of Zior and halfway to the camp.”

“How did you do this?” Watcher said. “Why?”

“I used my legs. I wanted to see what was there. My parents thought I was on a picnic with friends. I begged them for weeks to let me go. I simply had to see what was so bad about the place. Our village is terrified of it.”

“You deceived your parents,” Owen said. “You must not do it again.”

“What did you see?” Watcher said.

“Snakes as big around as me and twice as long as you, Wormling. Maybe three times. And the lizards of Zior protect the camp at the edge of the mines. I saw them through—”

“Lizards?” Owen said.

“Hundreds. Thousands. They hop with long tails and catch insects and fight with each other. I suppose they’re guarding the encampment for the demon flyers.”

Watcher looked worried. “You knew about the lizards, but still you came.”

Starbuck nodded. “The Wormling will keep me safe. I wouldn’t miss this.”

Three times Watcher’s hair went up, and she pushed Owen and Starbuck behind rocks or covered them in the sandy soil. All three times demon flyers screeched overhead, flying toward the mines. Watcher shook each time, but Starbuck seemed excited.

“Those things took two of my best friends,” Starbuck said. “How many are we going to kill?”

Watcher looked at Owen. “You brought him; you answer him.”

“You heard what I said at the camp. I don’t intend to kill anyone or anything.”

Starbuck frowned. “I thought that’s what you’d say. But what if they attack? We have to defend ourselves!”

Owen shook his head. “I’m hoping they never see us.”

In the Valley of Zior the three scrambled inside an abandoned cave before the sun rose to the edge of the horizon. As the orb climbed, a sizzling sound made Owen realize the sun was literally baking the valley floor. Tiny shoots that had budded in the night withered and collapsed. The dew on rocks bubbled, hissed, and evaporated.

“Why is it so hot here?” Owen said, curling up to nap.

“They say the Dragon set up an unseen desert boundary,” Starbuck said. “Those who travel into the valley are said to have abandoned all hope, because death is sure.”

They slept through the day until the sun seemed to lose intensity in the long shadows. As they made their way out of the cave and into the dry and cooler air, animals were beginning to peek out of their holes, skittering among the sparse bushes and tumbleweeds.

Watcher stopped Owen just before he would have stepped on a huge snake slithering through a gully. Its head was as large as Starbuck’s.

The valley was filled with the bones of animals. The moon finally appeared, softly glowing, and Owen was glad they didn’t need a torch.

They came over a rise, and Starbuck stopped. “Yipping. The lizards must know we’re coming. They can sense us.”

“Is there any other way to the mines?” Owen said.

“They surround the camp all the way to the entrance,” Starbuck said. “I saw it through the viewing circle.”

“When the sun rises, they must go underground,” Owen said.

“Yes, to live,” Starbuck said. “You’re not thinking of walking across there in daylight, are you?”

“Wormling,” Watcher said, “no one can withstand the searing sun here.”

“Unless we go underground,” Owen said. “Or simply walk straight through the enemy horde.”

“I’d like to see you do that without killing any of them,” Starbuck said.

Owen felt the hilt of his sword. He whispered, “Follow me.”

The eyes of the lizards gleamed green in the moonlight as Owen peeked over the crest of rock, 50 yards from the swarming creatures. He had told Watcher and Starbuck to stay behind, wanting to see what they were up against. The reptiles’ snouts were long and thin with razor-sharp teeth, and that would have been enough to turn most people back, but it was the eyes that penetrated Owen’s heart. They reminded him of the Slimesees’.

The lizards looked prehistoric, antsy and chattering in their own language. Tails as long as baseball bats twitched and patted the ground like unruly snakes. They stood on their back legs most of the time, unless they wanted to go faster. Then they dropped to all fours and skittered quicker than Owen’s eyes could follow.

If only he had The Book of the King and could simply wave it before them, these creatures would crawl back in their holes and he and Watcher and Starbuck could pass. They could wait until the blistering daylight when, hopefully, the lizards would be forced underground, or figure some way to get past them before the sun rose.

At first the pack looked like nothing but chaos, but the more Owen watched, the more he became certain there was a method to the creatures’ running and jumping. They hopped and squeaked and caught glowing insects and bit each other and squeaked some more. With their tough skin, they looked like an armored cavalry.

Owen waved Watcher and Starbuck forward and got out his water bottle, which was about a third full. He had another full bottle in his backpack, and though it was a risk to use water for anything but drinking here, he had an idea.

Watcher thought it a waste of water, but Owen pulled out his sword and told Starbuck what to do. The youngling listened; then a strange look came over him. Owen heard skittering and chattering lizardspeak and turned in time to see two green eyes bouncing over the sandy ridge ahead.

“A scout,” Starbuck whispered. “He’ll report us.”

The creature’s head bobbed, slithering over the ridge and back down.

Owen sensed danger even greater than the flood from Mountain Lake. He remained still, not even breathing as the scout scanned left and right. Summoning the skills learned in his quickness drills, Owen grasped the sword by the hilt.

The scout immediately stopped to look at the hulk hiding behind the dip in the sand. He looked surprised, and before he could call out to his friends, Owen swiftly brought his sword forward.

Any ordinary person faced with the prospect of being overrun by a horde of lizards might have squished this lizard like a bug or sliced him like a block of cheese. But it should be no surprise to you (though it obviously was to Watcher and Starbuck) that Owen did not cut his head off or splatter his insides against a rock. Rather, he simply brought the flat blade down on the lizard’s head sharp enough to knock him senseless.

The lizard swooned, head lolling, tongue sticking out, and he collapsed in the sand, lips curled around sharp teeth, a strange look on his face.

“He’ll be up soon,” Owen said. “Take your places.”

Owen crouched and moved resolutely toward the lizards. He imagined them attacking, life draining from him and making him just a stain on the desert floor. By morning he would be nothing but bones, another sad statistic in the life-and-death cycle that was this valley.

But no. When he was within a few yards of them, he stood tall and held his sword straight in front of him. Deafening screeches and chattering nearly unnerved him enough to jam his hands over his ears, but he simply took in the sight. The lizards began hopping atop each other, biting and clawing as they advanced toward him. The lizards that had been at the perimeter joined the others in the middle, and Owen flashed Watcher and Starbuck a signal.

When the lizards were almost upon him, Owen spat a stream of water onto his sword. The blade glowed and emitted a burst of white mist that enveloped him and mesmerized the swarming horde. They shrank back, then gathered around the sword and followed like children at a carnival.

As the right flank of the lizards moved toward Owen, Watcher and Starbuck slipped past Owen and up the rocks toward the camp. Owen kept moving toward a narrow crevasse, still surrounded by lizards chattering and clucking, gazing intently at the sword.

He moved more quickly now, and the lizards parted in front of him. At the crevasse, he poured more water on the sword, stuck it upright in the sand, and hurried into the narrow opening that led to the camp. At the top, he met Watcher and Starbuck, panting, watching the horde circle the sword.

The three moved silently uphill toward flickering campfires. The soft clink of chains and the muffled cries of children mixed with snores from the edges of the camp.

In the moonlight, Owen spotted a guard, spear in hand, wearing a helmet and a breastplate. Huge nostrils emitted a ghastly sound that turned Owen’s stomach. This was no human, and it certainly didn’t look like any animal he had seen. It was sort of a rhinoceros-ape mix with a hairy body and a head that didn’t seem to want to end.

The camp was dotted with structures made of animal skins stitched together and stretched over wooden stakes. Limp bodies scrunched up for warmth lay under animal skins. Each had a chain attached to a wide silver buckle fastened around the ankle and hooked to another person or to a metal stake in the ground.

The encampment covered the plateau to the edges. Every 30 yards or so a fire burned, making it easy for the guards to see their prisoners.

Starbuck motioned Owen and Watcher toward holding pens and pointed at the sleeping forms. Owen recognized several from Erol’s clan, younglings too large to crawl through the openings in the pen and too small to break through the lid fastened at the top.

Watcher started to speak, but Owen put a hand over her lips and gestured above them to a narrow path before the mouth of a cave where a guard was slumped sleeping. They moved to the ledge, where they could talk. Below, Owen’s sword still shone with lizards hopping and jumping around it.

“Psst.”

Owen spotted an old man with gray hair sitting up under his tent. He scooted quietly across the sandy ground and ducked under the tent flap just as a guard stretched and belched.

The old man grabbed Owen’s tunic and pulled him close. His breath was sour and his eyes dim. “Have you come for us?”

“I’ve come for the children,” Owen whispered.

“How did you get past the lizards?”

“Never mind. Where do they take you when the sun comes up?”

“Into the bowels of the cave.” The old man stared at Owen’s face. “Who are you?”

“I have come to free the captives. And when my mission is complete, I will come back for you.”

“Did the King send you? How else could you have gotten through the lizards?” He leaned closer. “His wife is here, you know. Yes, the Queen is in this wretched place.” He pointed and said, “Over there. Extra guards day and night. We expected a rescue mission someday, but . . . you are such a young one.”

“What happens here?”

The man scowled. “The Dragon works us to death in his mines and throws us away when we’re used up.” He nodded south of the camp, where bodies lay stretched in piles, birds picking at the seared flesh in the moonlight. Owen had to look away.

“We have heard rumors of rumblings in the kingdom. A great tremor was heard not long ago, and the Queen has said something about a Wormling.”

“She is wise,” Owen said.

The man perked up. “It is true?”

Words from The Book of the King came to Owen. “‘The King knows the burdens of the weary and hears the cries of the oppressed. His army is coming. His deliverance is near. He will lead his captives from the depths and bear their burdens.’”

The man trembled and his eyes widened. “Have you seen the Wormling? Do you know if he is here?”

“I know this,” Owen said. “The rumbling you heard was the Wormling. The King’s forces are moving. When the Son is found—”

“The Son! The Queen was overheard talking of the Dragon’s council held just days ago!”

The threatening pink of daylight caused a stir. Chains clinked as people sat up and the guards made the rounds to release their leg-irons. The prisoners trudged through the chow line, eagerly receiving a bowl of pasty mush they ate with their fingers. Heads down, shuffling, they plodded up the dusty path single file to the cave.

The old man with the long silver hair, however, smiled at the guards, chuckled as he shoved the food into his mouth, then quickly handed the bowl back. As he began the steep incline, he craned his neck and looked to the holding pen of the Queen. “Good mornin’, my lady,” he cackled. “Nice day for the Son to come, isn’t it?”

The guards had to assume he was saying “sun.”

The Queen, dark haired and with olive skin, did not even turn her head. She merely stared at the ground.

“Keep moving, you old buzzard,” a guard said, poking him in the ribs.

The old man just smiled.

* * *

Owen, Watcher, and Starbuck sat on a ledge high above the room where precious metals were separated from the mined rocks, watching people shuffle by and the guards treat them cruelly.

Owen’s heart broke at the sight of a mother weeping for her child, separated at the previous tunnel. The guards had snatched him from her arms and thrown him into the elevator operated by pulleys. All the way down the shaft the child screamed and cried, and Owen had to close his eyes and breathe slowly, so great was his anger.

Finally a woman with black hair, an olive complexion, and less-tattered clothes strode regally into the hall below. Owen could hardly keep his eyes off her. People bowed until she sat.

Owen waited until the line dwindled to a trickle and the guards took their positions. One of the biggest stood outside, carefully watching those who brought in wooden boxes filled with rocks. A blast of hot air hit Owen, and a bright light shone through the cave. The guard below him moved down the tunnel, yelling orders to block the entrance and the searing heat of the sun.

Seeing his chance, Owen motioned for Watcher and Starbuck to stay where they were and dropped to the ground, rolling into the separating room.

The dozen people around the table recoiled. A man stood, lips pursed. “Bow before royalty.”

Owen put a finger to his lips and spoke to the Queen. “I mean you no harm, Your Highness.”

The Queen stood. “Guard! Guard! Return here immediately!”

“I tried to send you a message this morning. The old man who spoke to you—”

Another woman stood and glowered at Owen, holding a black rock above her head.

“Wait!” the Queen said. “What message?”

Owen told her what he had told the old man to say.

A guard was coming, huffing and puffing.

“Please, Your Highness,” Owen whispered, “just hear me out.”

Something in her eyes let Owen know she would. As the guard arrived, Owen ducked under the table.

The Queen waved. “Just a misunderstanding.” She looked at the woman across the table. “Go back to work.”

“See to it,” the guard said, shoving the Queen into her chair. The others gasped, and the guard sneered as he left.

The Queen leaned down. “You have one minute before I report you.”

“I’m here to help. I’m the Wormling.”

The table went deathly silent; then 11 other chairs pushed back.

“He’s too small,” a woman said.

“The Wormling is supposed to be a giant, isn’t he?”

“Certainly not as puny as—”

The Queen snapped her fingers. “Keep working.” Then she leaned closer to Owen and whispered, “Speak.”

“I’ve been sent to find your Son. I’ve just come from the island where Mordecai has been hiding—”

“Mordecai?” she hissed. “He betrayed us.”

“He was the only one left who knew the initiation and training.”

“Bardig knew—”

“Bardig is dead. Killed by Dreadwart.”

“Who sent you?”

“A man with a book; he called himself Mr. Page.”

“What happened to him?”

“He left the book with me and fled. The Dragon was chasing us.”

“In the Highlands?”

“Yes. And now I’m looking for your Son. He’s the one—”

“Who can bring both worlds together, yes, I know. I would trade all the unity-of-the-worlds talk for the return of my child and husband.”

“I will get you out of here,” Owen said, “as soon as I find your Son. There was talk of a conference, that you and the Dragon spoke.”

Her face turned ashen. “He said my Son was being held at the Castle of the Pines.”

“Your home?” Owen said.

She nodded. “It’s been years since I let myself believe he was even still alive. Perhaps this is a cruel trick by the Dragon to raise my hopes. Well, it worked. I pray he was a born liar telling the truth, but even if he was, what difference does it make? You’ll never get out of here. And if you do, you’ll never make it across the desert to the castle.”

“I made it here, didn’t I?” he said.

The Queen was silent.

“He has a point,” a man said.

“I’m here to rescue the children of Erol,” Owen said, “but I promise I’ll come back. And when I do, I’ll bring your Son with me.”

“Do that and I will make you the richest man in the kingdom.”

“I don’t want to be rich, Your Highness. I simply want to finish my mission and go home. I feel someone is waiting for me there, that there is a purpose in going back.”

The Queen bent and looked into Owen’s eyes. “Find my Son. Tell him where I am.” She drew a map to the castle with a piece of coal. “Forget the unity of the worlds, the talk of peace and love and tranquility. Just bring my Son to me.”

Owen pulled a huge cloak one of the prisoners provided over his tunic, and with Watcher and Starbuck also hiding beneath it, he carried a box of rocks down the tunnel. They were stopped only once—by a guard who would awaken an hour later with a terrific headache. He would tell his friends that the youngster under the cloak was much stronger than he looked, that the way he drove the smooth rock into his temple, just under his helmet, was military in its precision. The others would laugh, saying a child had gotten the better of him.

The three climbed down where they saw light flickering and water dripping from the sides of the cave—an oasis in the midst of a desert. They drank until they heard the screams of children.

“That’s Dalan!” Starbuck said. “My friend!”

“Easy,” Owen said, grabbing his shoulders. “We have to keep our wits.”

The air was thick, filled with black dust.

“Get up there into the hole!” a guard bellowed, lashing Dalan with a leather whip.

The other guard laughed.

“I saw a snake!” Dalan said, chest heaving. “Its head was as big as mine.”

“Then make your choice—the snake or my lash!”

Before Dalan made that choice, Owen slipped up behind the second guard and hit him in the back of the head with the smooth rock. The beast slumped as the other guard turned. He raised his whip, but he had no idea that the boy before him had spent the past few weeks knocking coconuts from their branches with only small rocks. Owen had become so good that he could throw with just enough force to knock the coconut down, creating a small hole through which milk gurgled. Mordecai had trained him to catch the coconut before it hit the ground.

Owen let the second guard slump with a thud while the children screamed with glee at the sight of Starbuck. They swarmed him, and Starbuck laughed and hugged them back. Watcher looked at Owen as if all the trouble they had experienced had been worth it, if only to experience this moment.

Owen reached inside his tunic and pulled out something small from an inner pocket. He whispered into his palm as he moved toward the rough wall of black rock, and the children could not have understood the significance of the chomping sound.

The children stilled as Mucker began eating away at the rock. His teeth had become dull and broken on his trip from the Highlands to the Lowlands, and the last time he had used them was in the fight against Dreadwart. Since then, sleeping and becoming restored, Mucker had grown stronger and his teeth now seemed even more powerful than before. Mucker began to grow as he took bigger and bigger bites from the wall.

“Stay close to me, children,” Owen said. “The rock will fall in on itself behind us.”

The group huddled close to Owen as Mucker wrapped his tail around them, pulling them with him as Owen recited words from The Book of the King that brought life to his soul and propelled Mucker.

“Whatever you choose to do, employ your whole heart in the task. You are not working for yourself or for others, but you are working for the very King himself and his purposes. You serve at the pleasure of the King, and if you please him, he will prosper the work of your hands.”

* * *

Commotion grew in the mines when the injured guards were discovered. They spoke of a strong-armed giant who overpowered them. The children were missing, and the pile of rubble sent rumors flying. People came running to the elevator, pushing past the guards to rescue the children.

In the separation room, the Queen fielded questions from the workers at the table.

“Do you think he was really the one?”

“Could this be the beginning of the war?”

“Are the children safe?”

The Queen sat stone-faced. “I do not know what the future holds, but I do know who holds the future. And if I am right, there is more at work here than simply an intruder into the Badlands. We must be vigilant now. Do not lose heart, for when the time comes, we will be asked to join the fight.”

As Owen and the children followed Mucker out, rocks falling and dust settling, the children stepped into the fresh air. The mountain cast a long shadow, since the sun was on the other side. The group sat and sipped water from flasks Owen, Watcher, and Starbuck carried. The children wanted to know how Starbuck had been chosen and how they had crossed the desert. Owen let Starbuck spin his tale while he met with Watcher.

Watcher believed the children should head across the desert by themselves with Starbuck. “We need to get to the Castle of the Pines as quickly as we can and not traipse back across the desert.”

“Traipse?” Owen said. “Where did you learn that word?”

“From you.”

“Watcher, we can’t let them cross the desert themselves. If the lizards or the snakes don’t get them, the demon flyers will.”

“Then I’ll go with them. I can alert them of the flyers. You can see us through the lizards and then turn around.”

Owen shook his head. “I know you’re trying to help, but—”

“These children are not your mission,” Watcher whispered urgently. “You are to find the King’s Son. Anything that sidetracks you only prolongs the agony of the people. Now you must go.”

Owen knew she was right, but when he looked at the children of Erol, he glanced back at her through teary eyes. “My mission is to follow the one who sent me. To listen to his voice. Mine is not simply a task to be accomplished. It involves friends. Like you. Like them. I am to find the Son for them. For us. For the kingdom. What good is it if both worlds are united, but we lose our friends?”

“You should not detour.”

Owen turned Watcher around and nodded toward the children, who sang and giggled and played in the sand. “How could they be a detour? Don’t get so caught up in the goal that you miss the good right here in front of you. The King loves even the smallest, even the most insignificant. And he will see that all who are broken are made whole, no matter their station.”

Her whiskers trembled as she looked at him. “Where did you learn this?”

“It comes from the book and seeps into the bones,” he said. “I still have much to learn and much to accomplish, but I must see these children back to their families before we go to the castle.”

“You and I both?”

“Watcher, I could no more leave you to those ravenous lizards than I could lay down the Sword of the Wormling.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Right,” Owen said. He raised his voice, as Mordecai taught him, and gave a mighty yell. “Sword!” The laughing and singing stopped as Owen held out a hand. A sharp whistling pierced the air, and a gleaming object hurtled toward them. The children covered their heads and hunkered down, but Owen stood tall and grabbed the sword.

Just as quickly he dropped it, shaking his hand and hopping. The children laughed as Owen blew on his hand. The sun had baked the sword, but water from his flask cooled the metal and one touch from it healed his blistered palm.

They set out at dusk, and Owen took them as far north as he dared. He stopped short of the bogs of Milosa before heading through the desert. He told them to keep quiet and listen for the yips and chattering of the lizards Starbuck had warned them of.

Traveling with the children was hard, because they were thirsty and quickly drained the water supply. Their stomachs ached because they hadn’t been fed properly. Desperate for food in a barren place that offered none, Owen led the little band to the cave he had found on the first morning of his journey, and the children slept. He walked through the heat to find any plant with moisture. When a jargid popped its head out of a hole and rooted for food, Owen used the sword and took the animal back to roast.

The children awoke to the cooking meat and seemed to happily eat their meager portions. Soon they set out again, and the moon was still high as they came within sight of the rock walls and caves of their village. The children began to run, and who could blame them, having gone through the most horrific time of their lives?

Watcher’s ears pricked, and she stopped beside Owen. “In the sky. Not far. Coming closer.”

Owen yelled, trying to stop the children, but it was too late. They had seen home and couldn’t wait to get there.

More than two dozen scythe flyers descended and quickly targeted the children.

Owen let out a war cry, holding the Sword of the Wormling as high as he could.

The children heard him and stopped, unaware of the danger.

He motioned for them to get down, and just as the first wave of flyers reached out to grab them with their sharpened nails, the children buried their faces in the dirt. Watcher and Starbuck also dropped to the ground, but when the first flyer looked back to see why it flew empty-taloned, Owen rushed him, sword back and ready. He lopped off both feet of the lead flyer and they plopped near one of the children, making her scream. But her cries were drowned by the shriek of the scythe flyer, which lost its balance, darted wildly, and spun out of control, hitting a large rock with a bloody splat.

But here came the second wave’s leader bearing down on the children. Owen sidestepped, and the flyer flew straight toward him. Owen struck the wing of the beast, sending it spiraling. The third wave’s leader got the sword in the heart—thrown expertly—and fell like a stone, dust and rocks kicking up.

Owen called, and the sword slid from the bone and gristle of the flyer and shot into Owen’s hand just as another flyer swung its massive tail at his head. The tail fell harmlessly in the dirt as another flyer was downed.

Owen killed six of the creatures before the rest retreated. The children gathered around him and followed closely as they were met by Erol and his clan at the border. Mothers and fathers gathered their children with long hugs and kisses, then passed them around, everyone taking turns in the celebration.

Owen stood back with his arm around Watcher, laughing.

Finally Erol made his way to Owen and took Owen’s hands in his. “How can we thank you?”

“No need,” Owen said.

Erol choked up. “And to think I believed the creature the Dragon sent. I almost killed you.”

“Never believe the Dragon or his agents,” Owen said. “Trust in the King.”

Owen cut the hearts from the six dead flyers and instructed Erol to place them on the rock where RHM had said his should be placed.

You must remember that Owen Reeder was still a teenager, with teenage concerns, though admittedly not of the usual sort.

Owen’s main concern was whether he could measure up to the task ahead. Did he have what it took to find and rescue the Son? He’d been through rigorous training, sure, and he felt the muscle and brawn in his arms and chest every time he wielded the sword, but had he really become extraordinary?

As he and Watcher moved along a trail that skirted an enormous lake, Owen reminded himself that he was the doofus who had lost The Book of the King. He had been given the responsibility of guarding it and protecting it and preserving it, and he had failed. Some hero.

“What’s wrong?” Watcher said.

“Wrong?” he said.

She pointed behind him to a long line in the sand. “Your sword is dragging.”

Owen cleared his throat. “Just tired, I guess.”

“We will grow much wearier long before we reach the castle. Keep walking.”

By evening they had walked as far as a feeder stream, and clouds rolled in. They camped under a covering of trees, and when it began to rain, Owen fashioned a tarp of jargid skins over the branches to shelter them.

Lightning made Watcher shiver, and rivulets of water formed a new stream around them. Owen recalled how much he had loved watching a storm from his room above the bookstore back home. He would look past the alley to the mountain beyond town, wondering if there was a place for him in the world. He would wonder where he might wind up, what job he might land, and imagine himself in any of a hundred professions.

Actually sitting out in the storm, however, Owen didn’t care as much for the lightning and thunder. And somehow he could no longer imagine himself in some mundane job in the other world. He did, though, conjure an image of his friend who worked at the diner. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Clara had connected and might have had some sort of future . . . not that he would trade it for this adventure.

* * *

Owen awoke the next morning wet and cold. Watcher had just returned with two fish she had caught at the water’s edge. Owen tried to make a fire, but the wood was too wet. Watcher simply ate her fish without cooking it, devouring scales and all. Owen gave her his and found berries to calm his grumbling stomach.

Low, dark clouds still hung over the lake, making Owen long for just a moment of sunshine. But not even a sliver of blue appeared in the sky during the next two full days of hard walking. He trudged along, head down, heels scuffing, sword dragging, until he ran into Watcher, who had stopped. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

When she didn’t move, he looked up. She seemed to be watching him for a reaction. Owen glanced past her to the horizon, where a huge dark tower rose against the sky. Speechless, he passed Watcher and moved toward it, more and more of the massive structure coming into view. It appeared to have been built on a section of land someone had dug around in order to make an island.

When Owen spotted guards positioned on the parapets, he pulled Watcher into the trees and peered through the viewing circle Erol had given him. Hideous, heavy-skinned creatures in military garb paced with huge weapons over their shoulders. “They’re defending the place like it’s Fort Knox.”

“Fort Knox?” Watcher said.

“A place with lots of gold and money.”

“Money?”

Owen focused on the castle. “If the King’s Son is there, he’s probably being held belowground; don’t you think?”

Watcher shook her head. “I’d sooner think one of the towers. It would be much harder to get there than some cellar dungeon.”

“Good thinking,” Owen said, still staring through the glass.

Watcher nudged him. “If the Son is such a threat to the Dragon—truly the only one keeping the Dragon from ruling the kingdoms—why doesn’t the Dragon just kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Owen said. Cryptic statements in The Book of the King told of someone giving his last full measure of life for his friends, and Owen wondered if that meant the Son would somehow unite the worlds through his death. But if so, how could he free the captives in the mines, Mordecai, the Erol clan, and those in Bardig’s village? And what of Connor and his desire to join the fight, though the fight seemed more against Owen than anyone?

Owen waited until deep into the starless night, then led Watcher toward the water that surrounded the castle. This was more than a moat, much too broad to be covered by a lowered drawbridge. How did people get in and out? At the edge, still short of the light from the guards’ torches, Owen stuck a hand in the water. Icy. While he had learned to swim—and well—there would be no splashing about in this body of water. Watcher might have been able to ford it with her fur as insulation, but he would cramp up and drown before reaching halfway.

“They must have a system to ferry over and back,” he said. “Let’s look around.”

As they tiptoed about, Owen was grateful for a heavy mist that blocked even the torches from reflecting off the water. He could hear the guards laughing and talking as he and Watcher searched. Finally, behind an outcropping of rocks near the narrowest stretch of water—about 40 yards from land to castle—Watcher stumbled across an ancient craft, no bigger than a rowboat.

“If this is here, that means that someone is out of the castle,” Watcher said. “Otherwise, wouldn’t they leave it inside?”

“Just lucky for us,” Owen said.

“But they’ll be back.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Wormling! If there was a bridge, we wouldn’t need this boat!”

“I mean we’ll worry about that if and when the time comes.”

They quietly set the boat in the water and clambered aboard. Within minutes Owen had rowed to the rocky shore, pausing and holding his breath between oar strokes to listen for any hint that the guards heard them.

They beached the boat, and Owen said, “Wait here. If I have trouble, I’ll give the signal.”

“I haven’t come all this way to wait outside,” Watcher said.

Owen faced her. “Watcher, please. Stay here until I need you.”

She rolled her eyes.

Using the climbing methods Mordecai taught, Owen slipped his hands between stones and pulled himself 200 feet up the wall of the castle. As he ascended—reminding himself not to look down—he occupied himself wondering how many times this old fortress had been under siege. How many times had the King had to flee? And how many royal families had lived here over the centuries?

As Owen neared the first terrace, he stopped and peered through the mist at where two guards were illuminated by a torch. Another torch was lit to his left, but the spot in the ramparts was unattended.

“He’s coming tonight,” one guard said, and Owen froze. “Preparations have already been made.”

The King? The Wormling? Who?

“He’ll burn half the villages on the way; don’t you think?” the other said.

The Dragon! Whoever had used the boat was likely out scouting, ready to sound an alarm if the Dragon was spotted.

“We can only hope. The citizens have caused him no end of trouble. Just wait till he catches that Wormling. His forces already have the book.”

“The Dragon has it?”

“No! It’s here! Delivered days ago. It’s magical, you know.”

“I’ve heard. Good thing we have it. It would be dangerous in the hands of the Wormling.”

“Wormling schmermling. They say he’s just a kid.”

“Then why can’t the Dragon destroy him? I hear he curses the Wormling every night.”

“Well, Dreadwart was wiped out. And the Wormling attacked the scythe flyers—20 or 30 chopped up with that giant sword of his.”

Somehow all this exaggeration gave Owen confidence. And to know the book was here made his heart leap. He had to get inside, maybe through the unguarded rampart. But as he scurried to his left, a loose piece of the wall tumbled into the darkness. With all his weight on his feet, a foothold broke loose as well, and there he dangled, 20 stories above the ground. Only his strength training allowed him to hang on.

“Did you hear that?” a guard said. “Something just dropped in the water.”

“Probably a fish. Or one of the gators. I saw one get a jargid the other night. Thing didn’t even have time to squeak.”

Watcher was down there at the water’s edge! No doubt she was watching Owen, not paying attention to the water. If a gator devoured her, Owen would never forgive himself for making her stay. He would feel just like Mordecai.

“I’d better get back,” one guard said. He moved past where Owen hung not five feet below the ledge.

Owen held his breath and flattened himself against the wall, praying the guard wouldn’t look over. When the guard had passed, Owen pulled himself up and hopped over the wall, landing catlike, without a sound. He scampered across the walkway into the shadows, out of reach of the torchlight.

Owen had to do something about Watcher. He could imagine the gator floating quietly behind her. He closed his eyes, sucked in air so his belly stuck out, and pretended he was one of the thick-skinned guards with the helmet like a crown. With lips pursed and chin puckered, he strutted to the edge and leaned out, forcing himself to bellow, “The gators will make a good meal of anyone near the water tonight!”

“Aye!” other guards called out in unison.

Owen moved back into the darkness and resumed his climb. When he reached the final parapet, he climbed over and quickly entered a window into an enormous dim room. The worn and tattered drapery hung blackened by fire, and the walls were charred. Candle wax pooled on the cool stone floor. Owen tried to imagine it before the fire, a bedroom with a canopied bed and walls covered with festoonery only a princess could love. Owen opened a massive wood door with a great creak and found fine linen robes bearing intricate designs. He shook the soot off one and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Suddenly, as if a breeze had blown into a vacant room in his mind, Owen believed he had been in this room in his dreams. The drawer of a nightstand by the bed held the remnants of a child’s drawing. Stick figures with round heads. Two large ones in the background, a smaller one in front, and a tiny one in the arms of the figure with long brown hair.

On the wall a frame contained a map that included the lake, the castle, the mountains, and the Valley of Shoam. Owen traced a finger over the Badlands.

Could this be the room of the Queen? Had he stumbled onto the King’s bedchamber? If so, then the pile of rubble in the corner . . .

Owen knelt and picked up what was left of a post with rounded edges. The fine wood was inlaid with exquisite detail, just like the robe he wore, and a few inches of material remained—the colors of a rainbow. A child’s coverlet. A wooden rattle lay underneath, along with a toy bear with tiny ears and buttons for eyes.

Was this the crib of the Son now grown, who would unite the kingdoms and bring peace and freedom and joy to both worlds? Could a baby grow up to become a liberator of people so much older and so far away? Owen trusted The Book of the King, so it must be true.

He slipped the bear into his pocket before a blast of air swept in and the tattered draperies fanned. Owen heard the faint call of Watcher from far below as a fiery, red-orange glow filled the window.

Owen’s voice from high atop the castle wall had alerted Watcher, and she pulled the boat between her and the water. Twice she saw the eyes of a gator and tossed rocks at it, sending it under. She growled at the beast as it circled.

But her growl turned to a whimper as enormous wings appeared out of a black cloud above. Her ears fell back, she dipped her head, and her fur fell close to her body—except on her back, where it stood straight. The gator had distracted her from sensing such a clear and present danger, but now that it drew near the castle, every nerve in her body was on high alert.

“Wormling,” she whispered. Her job was to sense and watch and warn, but she couldn’t yell or the beast would swoop down and consume her with one belch of fire.

Some in her village had criticized her for her slowness in warning—the very same ones who said her position was useless, who said they no longer needed a Watcher, that the tales of the Wormling were simply superstition and the power once vested in Watchers had left long ago.

Watcher’s teeth chattered and she shook. What if the Dragon killed the Wormling? Should she continue the search for the King’s Son? She cowered by the castle wall as the great beast circled, a phalanx of escorts flying before and after him. These flyers, though smaller, looked much like demon flyers but could maneuver more deftly. Their eyes were a luminous red, and they scanned the castle.

Far above her, the guards leaned over the wall, bowing their helmeted heads to their leader. Perhaps they feared a blast of fire.

Watcher had no idea what to do.

The Wormling can take care of himself.

Could he know the Dragon is coming?

He’s the one sent for the King’s Son, not me.

He’ll die a fiery death.

I must keep my head and not insert myself into this fight. But I have to warn him! It’s my job!

And yet he was the one who left me here, telling me to wait for his signal. I must protect myself.

The battle raged inside until the sick, pungent aroma of death that surrounded the Dragon—rancid meat mixed with smoke, a repulsive mixture of rotten garbage and burning flesh—reached her. She could only imagine how he smelled indoors.

The Dragon’s wings flapped as he descended to the very windowsill the Wormling had entered, and Watcher knew she could no longer keep silent. She closed her eyes and let out a feral cry she hoped would reach her friend.

Suddenly stillness fell over the whole castle. When Watcher opened her eyes, the Dragon’s flying minions had rallied and were barreling down at her, but she feared the Dragon himself even more than these.

His eyes had locked onto hers, and with a roar that made his own flying forces pull up and away, the Dragon let go of his perch and dropped in a free fall, tucking his wings for greatest aerodynamic effect. Watcher could only stare as the black mass that was the Dragon grew closer, his tongue slithering in and out, as if anticipating a tasty meal.

Indecision would kill her, she knew. Had she lingered a second longer, Owen would have found her charred remains. Instead she propelled herself with a mighty leap over the boat and into the water. She seemed to move in slow motion, trying to hurry herself as the Dragon swooped like a hawk over a field mouse.

Watcher heard the blast of the Dragon’s breath—a thunderous, molten exhale—as he spread his wings to keep from crashing into the rocks. She felt heat sear her back just as she plunged into the green murky water, and it instantly turned bright orange. The icy impact took what little breath she had, but she dared not surface as the bubbling, boiling water pushed her farther down.

She was not alone. Fish and turtles were also diving for the bottom. She kicked, trying to keep from rising as the flames dissolved. But Watcher broke the surface in the midst of smoke and steam, gasping and coughing. She heard a gurgle and looked up into two red eyes. The Dragon sent another blast of flame toward her. She had just enough time to gulp and go under, swimming for the middle of the lake.

She had eluded the monster above—at least temporarily. But awaiting her was the gator she had driven away with rocks only moments before.

Owen sank into a dark corner of the chamber as the roar of fire and the Dragon’s curses filled the air. After the noise seemed to recede, he moved to the window, only to see steam and bubbling water in the lake.

When the wing flaps came again, Owen rushed to the wall opposite the robe closet and pressed himself against it, trying to disappear. A stone under his hand gave way, and the wall moved ever so slightly. He turned and pushed with all his strength, and the stones crunched together as the wall slid open.

Owen ducked inside and closed the wall as far as he could, but before he could lean into it with his shoulder and push it the rest of the way, dust and ash flew through the small opening and a presence as evil and dark as Owen had ever felt filled the bedchamber. He didn’t dare move, breathe, or even blink.

“Human!” the Dragon said. “I smell a human!”

“Sire, welcome!” Owen recognized the voice of the being who had taken The Book of the King. “A feast has been prepared, and we have made every accommodation for you—”

“Who allowed a human in here?” the Dragon roared.

“There are several, sire. As I said, a feast has been planned, and we shall serve some for dinner.”

The Dragon sniffed. “No, I mean in this room.”

“Oh, surely not, Highness. The guards have reported no—”

“Then how do you explain the Watcher I just drowned below?”

Oh no! Not Watcher!

“Begging your pardon, Master, but a Watcher is not human.”

“But you yourself reported a Watcher with the Wormling on Mirantha!”

“Oh yes, you’re right. I should have dispatched the disgusting thing when I had the chance.”

“My point is that it is unlikely she was here alone. The Wormling could be close. He’ll be looking for the book, from whence his power comes.”

“Perhaps we could lure him into the open if we capture the Watcher,” RHM said. “Are you sure she has drowned?”

“That should be easy enough to determine. Regardless, we can tell the Wormling we have her.”

“Good, sire! And if she is alive, we can do things to her species that will create great pain and make her—”

“I know!” the Dragon said, fire sparking. “Do not lecture me.”

“Apologies, sire.”

“The prisoner is enough to lure the Wormling. But see if you can find the Watcher anyway, and bring her to the counsel room.”

Owen heard them leave and was about to return to the room when he stepped back and nearly fell down a spiral stairway. No matter what happened, he could not take his focus off his quest. He could do nothing about Watcher after having left her vulnerable; that was sure. He only hoped she had somehow survived. Mordecai said everything happened for a purpose, even the bad things.

Owen had to find out where the stairway led. He pushed the stone entrance closed and gingerly made his way into the darkness.

The water grew frigid again, and Watcher’s muscles immediately tightened. She surfaced farther out in the lake and knew she had to keep moving. The shore before her was as near as the castle behind her. She opted for the shore, as far from the castle as she could get.

Halfway to her destination she heard a snort and turned around, searching the darkness as she floated. “Is someone there?”

When she turned back around, two reptilian eyes glowed before her. She thought about diving underneath whatever this was, but she was certain it would be quicker than she was. “Who are you?” she said as confidently as she could.

“Call me Hunger. I’ll call you Food.”

The gator!

“I could make a quick end of you,” he said. “You won’t feel much pain.”

“Is your stomach all you think about?”

“What else is there?”

“Freedom. Life. If you eat me, you may also seal your fate.”

The eyes blinked and dipped out of sight. Watcher was startled when they appeared again to her right.

“What is this fate you speak of, groundling?”

“Death—the fate of all who serve the Dragon. But do what you must.”

The gator seemed to study her. “Those who seek your life are nearby,” he said quietly. “Why did the Dragon want to kill you?”

Watcher’s teeth chattered. “Because I oppose him. I do not acknowledge him as ruler.”

“If the Dragon is not our ruler, who is?”

“The King alone deserves our honor and obedience. Not this impostor who lies and kills. But you are dedicated to him, and you’ll either deliver me to him or—”

The eyes disappeared in the blackness, and Watcher found herself in the gaping mouth of the gator. She tried to push on the roof of his mouth, but her ears popped from the pressure and her oxygen ran out as the animal dived for the bottom.

Finally, from the back of the throat came the same voice. “I’m sorry to frighten you, groundling, but I had to be sure you were on the side of truth. I neither chewed nor swallowed, though you seem tasty. I am protecting you from those above. Hold your breath just a little longer, and I will show you something you will never forget.”

The musty secret passageway snaked down through the entire castle and ended in a dank underground with soggy floors and only enough light to see things scurrying in the shadows. This proved to be an expansive area with catacombs and winding hallways, providing a wide base for the towering castle.

Owen immediately heard voices echoing off the walls. He stayed out of the scant light of the sparse torches that dotted the walls as two guards in full armor passed, leaving tracks in the moist earth.

“The master will find her,” one said. “They’re scouring the lake and the countryside for the Watcher.”

“I’d like to sink my teeth into that overgrown vermin,” the other said. “How could any self-respecting animal hold its head high and not serve the master? Makes no sense.”

“Just like the Wormling. He’ll wind up serving the Dragon one way or another—either delivering his food or being his food.”

When Owen moved out into the corridor again, he passed an old curtain fastened to the wall. Strange. Why would a curtain hang here with no window or bedchamber or bathroom to shield?

Wood crates were stacked here and there, some filling whole rooms. Despite ornate sconces for torches and embroidered tapestries near 20-foot ceilings—evidencing the past beauty and glory of the place—it seemed to have become a dumping ground for old containers of food. Alas, what had once been the domain of a king had become home to the Dragon’s forces. The guards used corners of the hallways as their bathrooms, and bones and moldy bread lay strewed about.

But why did guards patrol this lowest level of the castle? No windows or doors led outside. One could get here only from long stairways above. Why not simply guard those entrances and exits?

Great stone pillars rose from the mud to the ceiling, and between them stood timbers lashed together like a makeshift raft. In the center of the wooden edifice was a door with a tiny window. On the other side, a double door, larger with no window.

At the sound of the guards talking again, Owen scampered back into the shadows behind a stack of crates.

When the guards passed, Owen hurried toward the first wooden door, hoping for a peek inside. Around the corner sat a guard’s station, a simple table and a couple of chairs. Beyond that lay a room with another long table, this one with leather straps at the head and foot. Along the walls hung chains and knives Owen recognized from a book he had read on instruments of torture.

He stole toward the tiny window and saw two cells divided by bars. Hay was bunched in the corners of both, a bucket in each for a bathroom, and in one an empty wooden plate looked like it had been thrown against the bars. Owen grabbed a torch from the wall and was able to make out a lump in the corner of one cell that looked like some barn animal curled in the hay.

At the sound of footsteps behind him, Owen scrambled to throw the torch back into its holder and jumped out of sight.

“I’ll bet she didn’t even make an entire meal,” a guard said. “There is no end to his appetite.”

“Perhaps he had the Wormling too, for dessert.”

They sat at the table. “How did you hear this—about the Watcher?”

“A guard on the parapet says he saw a gator pounce and take her under. Good riddance.” He rose and thumped the double door with a foot, and a growl shook the earth. “I say the Wormling will be next.”

Watcher’s lungs felt like they would burst. There was no light here in the jaws of the gator, just the creature’s awful breath.

They descended as far as Watcher thought they could possibly go, and then they plunged farther. Her ears popped, and she felt like she was moving up toward the surface. Oh, let it be so! I must breathe!

Suddenly the gator’s mouth opened, and they were on dry land. Gasping, Watcher stepped off his spongy tongue and into an underground cavern, where the water reflected a dim light above.

“What is this place?” Watcher said, but the gator was gone, submerged.

Watcher moved toward a tunnel but turned around at the sound of flapping wings. A creature eyed her with a tilted head, and suddenly Watcher feared this had been some unholy scheme—the gator had brought her here to be torn limb from limb and eaten. Well, she wouldn’t go quietly, not after all she had been through. She rose on her hind legs and looked menacingly at the being, ready to kick and thrash with all she had.

The bug-eyed creature shrieked with laughter. “My dear, you have nothing to fear from me or my friends.”

“Friends?”

“Rotag will return with another.”

“Rotag is the gator?”

“Harmless, isn’t he?” He wiped his nose. “Well, he certainly wouldn’t have left you down here to eat. We’ve heard about you. It was a long time ago, but my memory is sharp.” He sat on a rock and put his paws on his knees.

“How could you have heard of me?”

“Oh, you have friends in high places.” He laughed again. “I remember like it was yesterday.”

“What is this place?”

“Why, this is our hall of meeting, where the waterlings and undergroundlings get together to discuss important matters. And I daresay the matter before us today is exciting.”

“You’re an undergroundling?”

The animal’s mouth dropped. “I apologize. They’ll kick me off the assembly if they find out I’ve been so rude. Tusin is the name. Assemblyman of the undergroundlings.” He bowed to her. “Welcome, Watcher.”

“Thank you. I think. So, what will happen—?”

Just then the water cascaded from below, and Rotag slid to a stop. A beady-eyed flyer with the wingspan of an eagle swooped into the cave and alighted on the rock above Tusin.

“Allow me to introduce Batwing, and you already know Rotag.” Tusin stood. “Meeting of the assembly convenes on this day of the King, all members present, the honorable Rotag presiding.”

Rotag rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I have summoned this groundling to our meeting because she says a Wormling is in our midst.”

Batwing flapped and Tusin clapped. Watcher felt such energy in the room that she believed the very rocks would have cried out if they hadn’t responded. The noise echoed, and other voices picked up on the word Wormling.

“I can see your bewilderment,” Rotag said. “The King, before he set out on the search for his Son, allowed certain of us to know his plan. He left us with responsibilities—”

“Which we have taken seriously,” Tusin said.

Rotag continued. “The King said that one day the Wormling and a helper would come to the Lowlands in search of his Son. And here you are.”

Everyone seems to know more about us than we know about ourselves.

“The King read to me from a book—”

“The Book of the King?” Watcher said.

“Exactly! How did you know?”

“It was given to the Wormling in his world, but it has been stolen. We think it might be in the castle.”

“How would you know that?”

“I sense things. It’s my job.”

Rotag squinted. “Batwing? Could you . . . ?”

“At once,” Batwing screeched, flying off.

“I’m curious,” Watcher said. “Why did the King choose you? How did you become part of this assembly?”

Tusin said, “I could say it was because of our intellects or that we are the best specimens of our species. . . .”

“But he would be lying,” Rotag said.

“The truth is,” Tusin continued, “we were available. He called us to his service, and we responded gladly. How could we not?”

“How did he call you?”

“Like this.” Tusin waved. “‘Come here; I have something for you to do.’ As simple as that. He talked of the deep things in his heart: How he grieved over what had become of the kingdom. How he longed for it to be restored, and how it would be when his Son returned. Our hearts burned with his every word. They were like red-hot pokers, stoking a fire we didn’t even know existed.”

Rotag said, “He made us feel as important as his own Son. He said each of us has a story, and the smaller stories fit into the larger one. It was all very mysterious at the time, but now I can see how he was right. He gave us this job—to find the Wormling, to protect him, and to help him find the King’s Son.”

“Is the Son here, in the castle?” Watcher said.

“Someone is being held there. I have heard the crying and moaning.”

“The Wormling is in the castle now,” Watcher said. “He believes the book and the Son are both inside.”

Rotag and Tusin looked away.

“What is it?” Watcher said. “What’s wrong?”

Before either could answer, Batwing returned, short of breath, fangs jutting. He grabbed hold of a growth on the ceiling, hung upside down, and addressed the group. “I saw The Book of the King in the Dragon’s highest chamber. It is guarded by four demon vipers—the Golden Guard from the east, west, north, and south. It will be impossible to get past them.”

“Not for the Wormling,” Watcher said. “I saw him battle the beasts in—”

“Yes, yes, and lop off the feet of some scythe flyers. We have heard. Well, these are quite different. They shoot venom at their enemies. Your Wormling wouldn’t be able to even get his sword close to them before he would be cut down.”

“You don’t know the Wormling,” Watcher said.

“I know these vipers, and they will not let the book out of their sight.”

“Then we must find a way to make them. Or kill the Dragon.”

Batwing closed his eyes and swung back and forth from his perch. Tusin stared at the stone floor.

Rotag spoke. “If this Wormling has read the book, he knows that only the Son can bring the worlds together.”

“He has become fearless and cunning,” Watcher said. “I believe he will find the Son and return with the book.”

“He will need help,” Tusin said.

“The King said we are to help,” Batwing squeaked.

Rotag sighed and gazed at Watcher. “New friend, we will do all we can.”

Owen sat stunned at the news of Watcher’s death. Deep in the night, fears are the worst and grief can envelop even the strongest heart. Owen could only imagine Watcher’s fear and desperation as she was devoured. And it was his fault. She had wanted to come with him, but he had made her stay.

Owen had gotten off to a bad start with her when first he arrived in the Lowlands, but he and Watcher had become friends, bonding in their love for the King. And there had been something else between them, something more than just friendship. Certainly not romance, for they were not even the same species, but somehow they cared deeply for each other no matter how wrong either could be. Owen regretted the times he had had the chance to encourage or compliment Watcher but had let the opportunity slip.

Now how could he press on with the demon flyers of the enemy arrayed against him, without the one being in this world who knew the most about him and cared the most for him? Bardig had given his life; Watcher had hers taken due to carelessness—Owen’s own.

“Psst.”

Owen peeked out from behind the crates to see a face at the tiny window of the cell.

“Are you here to help?”

“That depends on who you are,” Owen said.

“The guards are away! Get the key from the wall behind the desk.”

Owen retrieved it but hesitated before the door.

“Hurry!” the man said, his voice making Owen guess he was in his twenties at most.

Owen fumbled with the key, ears pricked for any sound of guards and wondering if he might be freeing someone who deserved to be imprisoned.

Just as the lock clicked, footsteps approached. The prisoner opened the door and pulled Owen inside, the lock latching.

“Thanks a lot,” Owen said. “Now we’re both—”

“Shh!” The man pulled some hay back. “Lie down and I’ll cover you.”

“What’s all the racket?” a guard roared.

“I’m hungry!” the prisoner said.

“Shut up or you won’t eat for a week!”

The guard sat at the table and put his feet up, mumbling, “Kudzik wandered off with the key again. Idiot.” Soon he was dozing.

Owen crawled out from under the smelly hay, brushing it from his hair and clothes.

“Who are you?” the prisoner whispered.

Owen looked into the man’s face. Could this be the King’s Son? He had imagined the Son tall, dark, strong as an ox, with a face chiseled from stone and yet with eyes that could look right through you. He assumed the Son would act in a regal manner like his mother, the Queen, the perfect blend of strength and compassion, of love and power. But the young man in front of him seemed less than regal. He had longish hair cut square around his face. His eyes stuck out so he looked more like an owl than royalty. He was tall and thin, not as strong as Owen had thought, but still Owen’s heart beat wildly. Could this be the one?

“Does it matter?” Owen said. “Maybe I’m a Wormling. What would you say to that?”

The prisoner rolled his eyes and sat. “My father used to tell of a Wormling. A dream. A fantasy. He uses the power of some book to bore through rock. Ever hear that story?”

Owen studied the man. “Maybe. Your father. Is he the King?”

“What if he is? If you can be a Wormling, I can be a prince.”

Owen smiled and pumped his fist. “You’re him! The one I’ve been searching for! You don’t know how long I’ve been looking or how far I’ve come. Now the prophecies can be ful—”

“Quiet,” the prisoner said. “I’d rather stay alive than fulfill some prophecies you made up.”

“I didn’t make them up. I read them in the book.” Owen looked around. A stone wall at the back. Dirt floor. Three walls made of timbers. He pulled Mucker from his tunic and noticed the worm’s teeth were shattered from chomping in the mine. “Now we have to get out of here and find the book.”

The prisoner stood. “You are obviously committed to this little quest. Fine, be my guest. But I’m getting as far away from here as possible. You can stay and face whatever it was that flew in an hour ago.”

“That was the Dragon,” Owen said. “He wants to destroy everything your father created.”

“He can have it. Destroy away. I’ll be on the other side of the kingdom. I’m not risking my life for fairy tales.”

“They’re not just stories. The Book of the King is a manual to live by, encouragement to live for others and to help you when—”

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling! I just want out of here.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never heard your name. What do I call you?”

“I’m Qwamay, but they’ll have both our heads if you don’t be quiet.”

“Prince Qwamay,” Owen whispered. “You will unite the two worlds.”

Qwamay glanced at the guard’s station, then paced. He stopped and knelt. “Do you have help? Are you working with anyone?”

Owen’s face fell. “There was one with me but no longer.”

“So you’re it? my rescue party?”

“Yes, but I have reason to believe The Book of the King is here, and with it—”

The prisoner cursed. “Stop talking about that book! Just get me out of here.”

“The book says each of us is in a prison, each needs rescue, and we can’t do it on our own. We need someone from the outside—”

“Yes, a Wormling, is that it? Do you see yourself as a savior? You’re just a boy. And deluded.”

“Listen, Prince Qwamay, your father had the book written. It was delivered to me along with the Mucker.” Owen showed him the worm.

Qwamay scowled. “Terrific. That toothless bug is going to get us out of here?”

Owen unsheathed the Sword of the Wormling. “And this.”

Qwamay took it and studied the intricate carving in the handle. “Who gave you this?”

“A man who used to work here. You would have been too young to remember him. Mordecai?”

Qwamay sliced his finger on the edge of the blade and quickly stuck it in his mouth, handing the sword back. “You’re right. Never heard of him.”

Watcher followed Tusin through the cave, over slick rocks and jagged ledges. Her keen eyesight helped when they neared the surface, but most of the climbing had been in pitch darkness, relying on her sense of touch. It was tough, slow going, but anything was better than holding her breath in the jaws of a gator, no matter how good his intentions.

Rotag had taken the underwater route, and they met him and Batwing on the shore behind a grove of acacia trees. They were an unlikely quartet planning to storm the castle, but Watcher remembered a story the Wormling had read to her from The Book of the King.

“Three spies were sent into an enemy encampment by the captain of the guard,” she began. “The vicious and deadly force slept soundly, too drunk on the spoils of war to notice the intruders. Once inside, they moved steadily through the camp, counting the fighters and all their weapons. They counted 7,000 soldiers. Their own force was less than half that.

“They hurried back to report to their captain. He chose 15 men (the three spies included) and had them stand above the camp on a hillside. The other troops protested, but the captain of the guard said the King wanted to teach them that it is not by might nor power nor weapons of warfare that an army is victorious but by the strength of the one who sends them.”

Batwing, Tusin, and Rotag seemed to hang on every word.

“What happened?” Tusin said, his voice cracking.

“The 15 encircled the camp of 7,000 in the dead of night. At a signal from their captain, they blew a note on their rams’ horns. The enemies awoke in confusion. Their horses bolted from their pens, and the warriors, believing they were under attack, grabbed their swords and spears and lunged at anything and everything around them. All 7,000 were slain by their own hands.

“So the smaller army learned that victory came not from strength in numbers but in trusting the word of the captain and following his orders.”

“I take that as a word from the King himself,” Batwing said. “That sounded like a story he would have told.”

A single glowing light shone from a room at the top of the castle. It beckoned Watcher like a beacon, perhaps showing the way to The Book of the King. But where was the Wormling?

“I can’t blow a ram’s horn,” Rotag said.

“I can screech,” Batwing said.

Watcher laughed. “Let’s remain quiet and search for the Wormling. Remember, the one who has sent us is greater than the one inside.”

“But the one inside breathes fire,” Batwing said. “And has demon vipers.”

The two heavily armed guards at the front of the castle had skin thick enough to withstand an arrow. They were clumsy, oafish beings, but they looked like stone sentries now, slumbering at their posts with flies hovering.

Watcher and Tusin rode on the back of the smooth and silently gliding Rotag across the water toward the castle. When they reached land, Rotag pitched his riders off and advanced on the guards.

At that very moment, Batwing swooped out of the sky, diving for the guards, and sped past their noses. The two guards jumped, their spears clattering to the ground. That’s when they noticed the gator.

“Look at the size of that monster,” the first said, grabbing his spear and hurling it. It glanced off Rotag’s scaly back and rattled along the rocks into the water. The other guard bent to pick up his spear, but the gator lunged at him with mouth wide.

The black-winged creature flitted about their heads, making them flail. Of course, this whole operation was designed to move the guards just far enough from the entrance so Watcher and Tusin could enter unseen. As they slipped in and disappeared around a corner, scythe flyers converged on the scene, sending Batwing racing into the night as Rotag plunged into the water.

“Waterlings have never come that close before, have they?” one guard said.

“Maybe he was hungry,” said the other.

“Or maybe he smelled Wormling. But the master will have all of him.”

Owen recited passages from The Book of the King, challenging Prince Qwamay to help defeat the Dragon and unite the kingdoms, but Qwamay would not listen. He said it would be impossible to escape after the sun rose, so Owen reached through the window and all the way to the lock. He silently inserted the key, but when he turned it far enough to release the lock, it clicked like a bomb. The guard’s chair slipped from under him, and he crashed to the floor.

Owen shot out of the cell like a cannonball and brought the butt of his sword down onto the guard’s head before he even had a chance to get a whistle to his lips.

“Finish him,” Qwamay said. “We have to make sure he doesn’t wake up.”

When Owen hesitated, Qwamay reached for his sword.

Owen yanked it away. “I never take a life when I don’t have to.”

“You read too much. Well, it’s your own funeral. I’ll be long gone by the time he squeals.”

They ran past crates and cages, coming to a musty room full of rotting food. Prince Qwamay paused, shoving a handful of turnips into his mouth. How strange to see the Son of the King of all the land resorting to eating trash.

“I’ll find food fit for you,” Owen said. “Just follow me.”

“Never mind. I’ll find my own way out.”

As footsteps caromed off the walls, Owen pulled Qwamay into a corner behind the black curtain. They stood deathly still while someone passed, snarling, headed for the cell.

“Through here,” Owen said, pushing the panel that led to the secret stairwell.

“Only if it leads outside,” Qwamay said.

“There is no way out from down here. Come on. At least you’ll be safe.”

Qwamay shook his head. “Give me your sword, and I’ll fight my way out.”

“Don’t be foolish! They’ll cut you down as soon as they see you. Follow me and I’ll get you to safety.”

Qwamay snorted. “You really believe you’re the Wormling, don’t you? some kind of hero with a sword and a chomping Mucker?”

“How could I not believe? It’s been proven over and over. Some who have seen do not believe, though the evidence is right before them. Listen, I promised your mother I would bring you to her, and that’s what I’m going to do, whether you like it or not.”

“My mother?” Qwamay said. “Where did you see her?”

Owen told him.

“And she bought your story about being this special worm child?”

“She trusts me to bring you to her and release the captives.”

“She trusts too much.”

“That is no place for a Queen. But if you and I band together—”

“If you’re such a savior, why didn’t you rescue her yourself?”

“My mission was to find you! But you have to step up and lead.”

“Lead who?”

“There are many in the land loyal to your father; they just have to be given a vision. They perish for lack of knowledge.”

Qwamay patted Owen’s shoulder. “Well, good luck spreading the vision.”

A shout came from the cell area and a whistle blew.

“Now you have no choice, Prince,” Owen said, pulling him through the panel.

Watcher’s ears perked up as shouts rang through the castle. She and Tusin and Batwing had found each other and hidden in an isolated room on the main floor. They were about to head out again when Watcher pulled them back. “Strong vibrations,” she whispered, her eyes shut tightly. “Invisibles coming this way. Huge. Bigger than I’ve ever felt . . .”

These invisibles, though she did not want to tell her new friends, were different from the ones Watcher had sensed before. These seemed more evil and also had abilities other invisibles did not. They communicated in squeaks and blips and carried weapons, cloaked by their bodies.

A sudden gust whipped the decaying velvet draperies about them, and a presence moved into the room.

Watcher’s eyes flew open. “Run!”

Watcher heard the squeaks and blips of the invisibles and an echoed response from upstairs. Batwing was the first out, darting and flitting like a moth on fire. A horrible burst from a weapon exploded behind Watcher, and the thwong enveloped Batwing. He crashed to the floor.

Tusin had turned the other way and beckoned Watcher through a sitting room that had been reduced to ashen rubble. The two raced through in search of a hiding place. Another weapon burst met Watcher’s ears, and together she and Tusin lunged and landed in a heap as the blast crashed into the wall. Dust and ash fell as Watcher scrambled to her feet and pulled Tusin along. The invisible above her was joined by another, and Watcher’s head filled with pain. The burst came again just as she and Tusin ducked behind a wall, and a stone fell, barely missing them.

* * *

In the chilly water outside the castle, Rotag floated and watched, somehow not associating all the commotion with his friends until Batwing flew toward a window and spiraled to the floor. Rotag moved toward the shore to get a better look and was right under the window when Tusin appeared, running headlong for the opening, followed by Watcher.

Tusin jumped just as a shock-wave burst immobilized him, and he somersaulted to the water with a slap, sending spray over Rotag. In a flash, the gator gathered Tusin in his huge mouth as a scythe flyer passed overhead.

Going up the winding stairs proved a different undertaking than coming down. Though in the best shape of his life, Owen felt his muscles tense with each step and his whole body ached. Halfway up, Prince Qwamay collapsed and rolled onto his back.

“How long have you been in that cell?” Owen said.

Qwamay shook his head, gasping. “I don’t even know. Tell me, how did you know of this passage?”

“I stumbled upon it.”

“Really? No special worm-child guidance you received?”

Mordecai had taught Owen that nothing happened by chance and that not even the smallest inconvenience was wasted in the economy of the King. Of course, he could not explain that to Qwamay just then. The young man certainly didn’t seem ready for the truth that he, of royal lineage, was in line to reign with his father and defeat the enemy.

A terrific blast shook the stone around them. Another piercing burst and Owen was up, taking the stairs two at a time. “Sounds like an attack!”

“Who would be stupid enough to attack the Dragon?”

“I told you! There are many loyal to your father!”

“Then I should be able to easily slip away with all this commotion.”

Owen’s charge from Mr. Page had been to guard the book and find the Son. He had failed at the first; he didn’t want to fail at the second. If he could find The Book of the King quickly, perhaps the King’s writings would convince the Son to get involved with the mission. One look at those compelling words would make him see the wisdom of following such a wise and loving ruler. Whatever stood between Qwamay and his father, Owen was sure it could be overcome.

Gasping, Owen finally reached the top and listened at the secret entrance. He pushed the panel that opened into the bedchamber. Wings flapped outside, so he crouched low to the floor. “Qwamay?” he whispered.

But the young man had not followed.

As Owen neared the canopied bed, the voice that had protected him so long ago spoke again, this time with an unusual urgency. “Prepare your sword and shield.”

Shield? Had he missed something during the initiation? He pulled the weighty sword, and merely holding it brought back the words from The Book of the King.

The King is good and worthy of honor. He is a shield to all who wield his truth. Enemies shall be cut down because of him.

Owen noticed a strange glow from the hallway. Cautiously he stepped out. In spite of his fear, he knew from some instinctual place that this was why he had been called to the job of the Wormling. This confrontation was what he had prepared for on the islands of Mirantha.

In Owen’s former life, he had done everything he could to remain safe. But in this world he was in constant danger. Enemies were all around, and he had to be prepared at every moment.

In the hallway he found another stone stairwell. He passed a roomful of more charred furniture. A hiss emanated from the next room, where the glow was as bright as daylight.

He reached his sword into the yellowish green light, and in the reflection saw the ugliest beasts ever. Four had planted their talons on the four sides of an immense table. They looked somewhat like demon flyers but smaller and more ghastly. Their glowing eyes made the room so bright. Their beaks were like the mouths of snakes, tongues darting as they hissed, and instead of tail feathers, these bore small casings full of tiny beads that clattered when they shook—and all four shook now.

Owen stepped into the doorway and locked eyes with a demon viper. (He did not know the creature’s name at that moment, but that is what it was.) The other three arched their backs and strained, as if they wanted to fly but couldn’t. When Owen moved into the room he saw The Book of the King on the table.

The head of the viper before him elongated like a snake’s, and the other four followed suit, their rattles joining in a percussive hymn to their master. When their heads were two feet longer than when Owen first saw them, he smiled. This would be easy. One swing of the Sword of the Wormling and these creatures’ heads would fly off like toy rockets.

Owen poised to strike, but he was soon mesmerized by the glowing green eyes, the fangs, and the trickle of sticky saliva from the roof of its mouth. When the sides of the viper’s neck fanned out like an umbrella and its eyes turned bright red, Owen was entranced.

Liquid shot from the beast’s mouth, straight at Owen’s head.

The creature had struck with lightning speed and accuracy, a drop of its venom potent enough to kill a man by merely touching his skin.

Without thinking, Owen threw up his sword to block the poison, inches from his face, deflecting it into the wall, where it immediately ate away the stone. Owen shot from his crouching mode into a full-bore run, diving under the table.

The other three vipers went wild with their rattling and clacking and shrieking. Owen rolled onto his back to face the four sets of vipers’ eerie eyes, changing from green to red. Without waiting for their venom shots, he drove his feet up and kicked the table, sending the beasts flying into the wall and the sacred book sliding across the floor.

A viper screeched, and Owen saw smoke coming from its back, where one of its compatriots had apparently misfired its venom. Within seconds its screeching turned to a hiss as its body shriveled into a quivering mass.

Owen was on his feet now, sword ready, three vipers stunned by his quick action. The surviving vipers took flight, circling and eyeing him. Perhaps no one had ever countered them before; clearly they were as angry as hornets. Owen lunged at the nearest, but it darted and Owen’s sword caught only the end of its tail, rattle beads clattering to the floor. Owen turned just in time to use his blade to divert yet another stream of venom, this time into the face of the third viper. It fell to its death, hissing and sizzling.

The only two left were at opposite ends of the room now, but they screeched at each other and flew straight for him.

Owen dived for the table and turned it as both beasts unleashed their poison. The table split as the vipers swooped past, coming around for another pass.

Owen reached for the book as a viper plunged at him, shooting. He blocked the spray with the book, and the venom ricocheted back at the viper, striking it in the chest and killing it. Unlike the heavy wood table, the book had suffered no damage.

The last viper dive-bombed from the ceiling, eyes afire, fangs exposed, venom dripping. Owen dropped the book and reached for his sword as another flying being entered, not as fast and looking woozy. It screeched and flew directly toward the viper, causing the enemy to change course. It was a bat! And it had protected Owen.

The delay had given Owen just enough time to raise his sword above his head, and the viper flew right into it, chopping itself in half.

The bat cocked his head. “Careful of the venom, Wormling.”

“Thank you, friend,” Owen said, reaching up to shake before remembering bats didn’t have hands. He patted its head instead. “You know me?”

“Your friend told me about you.”

“My friend?” Owen said, carefully wiping the sword on a charred drapery.

“Calls herself Watcher. Brown hair, about this high . . .”

Owen’s mouth dropped. “That’s her. Is she alive?”

“She was when they dragged her from the room.”

“Who?”

“Invisibles with a powerful weapon. They hit Tusin and he fell—”

“Tusin?”

The bat—who said his name was Batwing—explained everything, and suddenly Owen was hopeful again. But Batwing said the invisibles had taken Watcher to the highest part of the castle, where Owen hadn’t even been.

He had retrieved the book, but the King’s Son had disappeared. He had to find the Son again. But his heart refused to leave Watcher in the hands of the Dragon.

Watcher moaned and groaned, struggling to open her eyes, but the ringing and pounding in her head would not stop.

She couldn’t move her legs. When she finally was able to see, she realized she was strapped to a wooden chair secured to the floor. She also sensed a presence so evil that the hair on her back rose straight up.

“Well, well, we meet the Watcher,” a deep and rattly voice boomed behind her. “Did you have a nice rest, my dear? You know, few survive a blast from the concussers.”

Watcher could tell by the putrid, sulfurous breath and the sound of the long heavy tail slithering about that this was the enemy of the King, the enemy of the Son, the enemy of the Wormling, and the enemy of all the citizens of her world. Just outside the door stood the being who had stolen The Book of the King, but when she looked at him, he quickly moved out of sight.

“Come, come, Watcher,” the Dragon said. “There are so many things we could discuss. How about you answer a question from me, and then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“You never speak the truth,” Watcher said.

“Oh, please,” the Dragon whined. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? You haven’t bought into propaganda of my opposers, have you? It must have been an ordeal, traveling with someone spouting passages from that dreadful book. Tell me, is the Wormling self-absorbed, obsessively focused? That must be terribly draining for you.”

“I will tell you nothing about the Wormling.”

“But you have been traveling with him, hmm? Haven’t you? Come, come, you can tell me. . . . Well, you are to be commended for your long-suffering. Now, as a gesture of goodwill, despite that you refused to answer, please feel free to ask me something. Go ahead. I’m dying to know what’s on your mind.” The Dragon finally came into view, his face lit with anticipation.

“The King’s Son,” she said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Hmm,” the Dragon groaned. “And I promised to answer.”

“I knew you would not tell me the truth.”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that at the moment I don’t know. I did know where he was, but now . . . it seems I’ve misplaced him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, ah—that’s two questions. If I answer, you must promise to answer my next one.”

Watcher could not lie or her powers would leave her. Silence was an option, but she felt compelled to help the Wormling. “All right, I promise.”

“Good! So, you seek the whereabouts of the King’s Son. To be truthful, we had him in a dark place, very safe and hidden. Now it seems he’s escaped. So, no, I don’t know where he is. But as soon as he is found, believe me, you will be the first to know.”

The Dragon inched closer, his ugly body squeaking as Watcher felt the heat of his breath on her neck. “My turn. And you promised. Where is the Wormling?”

Watcher gritted her teeth. “He told me to wait outside. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Going in the castle?”

“Ah, ah. That’s two questions.”

The Dragon backed away and straightened. “No, it’s one. The question is where is he?”

“The last I saw him, he was entering the castle, yes. But, like you, I really don’t know. If he found the King’s Son, they could be miles from here.”

“Without you? Not a chance.” The Dragon snorted, and a finger of fire leaked from his snout. Clearly he wasn’t happy. “Well, regardless, he’ll be back for you, won’t he?” He leaned close again. “Want to know something about your Wormling? He’s been hiding something from you, keeping something to himself, despite your loyalty.”

Watcher pretended otherwise, but he had her full attention. “I’d be surprised.”

“Have you any idea who this Wormling really is?”

“He’s told me of his life before, in the other world.”

“Ah, but has he kept from you the most important information all this time? Tsk, tsk, tsk. And you, such a faithful friend. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

Watcher tensed against the ropes.

“Let me guess,” the Dragon continued. “There is more than loyalty in your heart for this Wormling; am I right?”

Watcher pursed her lips and shook her head.

The Dragon chuckled. “Getting too close to the heart of the matter, am I?” He leaned close to Watcher’s ear and whispered in his sweetest, most cunning voice, “Your Wormling is in love. It’s true. His heart belongs to someone in the other world, and he doesn’t want you to know.”

“Why would I care? He’s not even of my species.”

“Some things cannot be explained by science. Admit that there is some feeling deep inside that Watcher’s heart of yours. I can sense it, just as you can sense invisibles.”

“You don’t even know him. You’ve never met him. How could you know—?”

The Dragon’s aide stepped in, head bowed.

“I told you I did not want to be disturbed!” the Dragon roared.

“I beg your pardon, sire, but I have urgent news. The vipers. They’ve been killed.”

“How many?”

“All, sire.”

The Dragon’s throat rattled and his skin flushed. “And what of the book?”

At this the being sank, his head nearly touching the ground. “I’m sorry, sire.”

The Dragon shook and let loose a blast of fire from his throat that barely missed the bearer of the news. He whirled on Watcher, eyes flaming, breath like molten lava. “You’d better hope that Wormling of yours has not yet left the castle.”

The Dragon strode from the room, the being letting him pass, then following.

Watcher struggled at the ropes until her ankles bled, but she could not free herself. She began to weep, not knowing the fate of the Wormling but knowing what the Dragon had said was true. The Wormling was her friend. He had shown her great kindness, and she felt as loyal to him now as she had felt for her old friend Bardig.

At her lowest, when she could not stop crying, the voice that had spoken to her long ago came back.

“Courage, Watcher,” the voice said softly. “Be brave and believe.”

Owen skulked through the castle with Batwing, carefully avoiding guards and scythe flyers. He knew demon flyers had to be around too and wished Watcher were here to warn him. When the Dragon bellowed from the floor above, they moved to the stairwell, only to hear the clambering footsteps of his minions approaching.

Batwing raced to the ceiling and hung there unnoticed, and Owen used the handrail to climb to a windowsill. The creatures were in such a hurry and apparently in such a blinding rage that they didn’t notice him. The Dragon lumbered down the staircase Owen had just left.

As soon as the Dragon and his assemblage were out of sight, Owen jumped down and followed Batwing upstairs. Owen frantically searched three rooms for Watcher before Batwing circled back and waved him on. “Found her,” he said.

Owen rushed to her, but before he could say a word she blurted, “Invisibles all around! Alerting the Dragon now!”

“Hold still,” Owen said, and he used his sword to slice her bindings.

“Did you really kill the demon vipers?” Watcher said as they ran from the room.

Owen flashed the book from under his tunic. “And not a scratch on it.”

“Where now?” Watcher said.

Owen turned to Batwing. “Can you cause a diversion that would allow us to reach the next level?”

“I can try,” Batwing said.

“And alert Rotag,” Watcher said. “We’ll meet at the landing by the castle wall.”

Batwing flew over the staircase into the huge hall, screeching and chirping.

Watcher and Owen raced down the steps, but when they were only halfway to the next floor, Owen noticed the hair on her back standing straight.

“They see us!” Watcher said.

“Faster!” Owen said, leading her to the King’s former bedchamber.

Watcher kicked the door shut and eyed the room slowly. “So much pain. This is where he and the Queen slept. And the Son in the crib.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Owen said. He grabbed Watcher’s fur and could tell something had shot through her mind.

The door rattled and something pounded against it.

“Invisibles,” she whispered.

Screeches, unearthly and piercing.

Owen dragged Watcher to the secret wall entrance, slipped behind it, and closed it just as a blast of fire shot into the room. There was a commotion followed by footsteps, but Owen and Watcher were flying downstairs, holding the walls as they took two and three steps at a time.

An eerie light flashed behind them, and Watcher slowed. “They’ve found the passage!”

“Go!” Owen yelled.

The air swirled and smelled of fire. What had taken Owen and Prince Qwamay so long to climb now took only minutes to descend. At the bottom Owen pulled his sword, but no sooner had they entered the dungeon and turned the corner than they were met by a horde of guards with weapons drawn. Leading the group, sword in hand, stood Qwamay.

Owen’s heart sank. “You’re with them?”

“Betrayal is the hallmark of battle, my friend.”

Watcher pushed Owen into the corner where the black curtain hung against the wall.

The passageway door flew open, and flames shot from the Dragon’s mouth. He nodded to Qwamay. “Good work.” He turned to Watcher. “We never got to finish our chat. You disappoint me. On the other hand, you led me to this fine young Wormling. Rather puny, but I suppose the King has to settle for what he can get these days.”

Owen brandished his sword, making the Dragon bare his dreadful teeth and rumble, “Surely you don’t expect that to protect you. Give me the book, and I promise to make your end painless.”

“You know the prophecy. You can’t harm me.”

“I didn’t write the prophecy! That’s just someone else’s wishful thinking! Now give me the book!”

“But the agreement between you and the King—”

“Do I look like a ruler bound by signed documents? Now, this is the last time I ask politely for the book.”

Owen shoved Watcher behind him. “You’ll have to take it. I’ll never surrender it.”

The Dragon raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. Reaching with his tail, he wrapped it around Qwamay and pulled him close.

“What are you doing?” Qwamay yelled.

The Dragon narrowed his eyes at Owen. “Give me the book and I won’t harm your friend.”

“You said I would have kingdoms of my own!” Qwamay whined.

The Dragon clamped his scaly talons over Qwamay’s mouth. “Turn it over, Wormling, and I’ll not make you pay for the four vipers lying dead in my holding room. And I’ll let the Son live.”

Owen could not give up the book—it was life to him, and the secrets to the survival of the two worlds lay within. But neither could he allow the King’s Son to die at the hands of the Dragon—even if the Prince had betrayed him.

What good was the book if the King’s Son was dead? And what good was finding the King’s Son if they had no book?

“Don’t believe him,” Watcher said. “He’ll never let any of us out of here alive.”

“The book, Wormling,” the Dragon said. “Or I roast this Prince.”

Owen pulled the book from his tunic. “I’ll trade it for his life.”

The Dragon wore a smarmy smile as he pushed Qwamay and he fell in a heap at Owen’s feet. His face was bruised and his mouth bloody.

“Are you all right?” Owen said.

“I’m sorry.”

Owen knew from The Book of the King that a Wormling could never go back on his word. A deal was a deal, no matter how much it hurt his cause or made his heart sick and regardless of whether the enemy felt bound by his own word. But as Owen was about to hand over the book, a voice whispered to his soul that he should open to a certain page, one he had not yet reached in his reading. As the Dragon, black saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, drew near and reached for the book, Owen dutifully opened it and began to read:

“Hear the words of the King. The words of this book shall not depart from your mouth or your heart all your days. Think about it day and night and be careful to do everything written in it. Those who do will be prosperous and successful.”

The Dragon huffed angrily, but the guards and other beings behind him listened intently.

“But those who oppose the King shall be cut off from the land of the living. These words will be found true of the evil one among you. He will injure the heel, but the Son will crush his head.”

Owen laid the book gently on the floor.

The Dragon roared, and his eyes glowed crimson. He opened his mouth and gurgled, making those behind him cover their eyes and ears and turn away. How many times had they seen citizens in the Lowlands consumed by his fire?

Owen held up his sword, keeping both Watcher and Qwamay behind him, but the Dragon ordered everyone else from the room. His troops raced out the door, pushing each other as the Dragon’s death rattle continued.

Owen carefully backed to the corner, herding Qwamay and Watcher near the curtain to shield them from the Dragon’s incinerating breath. But when the last of his forces were gone, the Dragon shot a blast of fire into the hallway, consuming everything in its path. The smell of burning wood and charred earth nearly choked Owen.

Next the Dragon raised a broad-taloned foot and slammed the door so hard it broke from its hinges and shook the walls. As the behemoth advanced, Owen noticed that a huge stone near the base of the castle’s foundation jostled with each step. Might it actually be removable?

“Pull the curtain around yourselves,” Owen whispered, “and see if you can remove that stone. Get out of here at all costs.”

“We’ll not leave without you,” Watcher said.

“I’ll catch up with you,” Owen said. “Now you must!”

The Dragon towered over Owen as Watcher and Qwamay worked behind the curtain. The monster grinned a sickly smile. “Congratulations, Wormling. You have reached the end of your journey. I will serve you for dinner tonight and enjoy the first and largest portion myself.”

The Dragon snatched up The Book of the King and tossed it behind him. His great tail thumped with excitement, making the floor shake and dust and mortar fall.

Owen gripped his sword and moved away from the curtain in the corner.

Nothing in all of Owen’s nightmares, in all his imaginings of the most horrid, foul, and frightening creatures, prepared him for the close-up version of the animal before him. His teeth were jagged like a jack-o’-lantern’s and as sharp as ice picks. His scales bore prickly spines all over his body, like quills that dripped green fluid. The Dragon appeared to be through talking. His dark eyes told Owen everything he needed to know.

Behind him, Owen heard the sliding of a stone, just enough to give him hope. He sidestepped to his left, hoping to distract the Dragon from the curtain. “Fear of the King,” Owen said, “is the beginning of wisdom.”

The Dragon gnashed his teeth, lunging at Owen.

Owen felt the wind from the sweeping talons on his cheek. He stepped over charred boxes, trying to maneuver to a position of strength, but he tripped on a grate in the floor and fell, his sword clanging. The Dragon pounced, and Owen rolled right, narrowly escaping the broad stomping foot.

“Sword!” Owen called, and immediately it flew to his hand. Before he could thrust with it, a sweep of the Dragon’s great tail sent it flying into the wall. The monster was on Owen now, close enough to overpower him with his smell, worse than a thousand hog pens.

Owen dived to the floor and slid between the Dragon’s legs. The animal nearly toppled, turning to try to follow.

“Sword!” Owen called again. This time he grabbed it and slashed the Dragon’s leg, blood flowing over the scales and quills.

Owen raced into the hall, hoping to lure the Dragon away from his friends. The Dragon thundered after him, past the bones of some animal piled in a corner. Owen pressed himself against the wall in the shadows, and the Dragon scanned the area. Standing perfectly still, Owen heard the stone clunk from its position in the wall.

Yes! They’re getting away!

Owen felt on the floor and found a pebble. As the Dragon continued to search for him, Owen tossed it onto the bone pile, sending the bones tumbling. The Dragon surged toward the noise and Owen ducked past him, shooting down the corridor like lightning. He flew back into the room and skidded to a stop at the curtain. As the Dragon came stomping back, Owen whipped the curtain back and felt a cool breeze, hearing the sweet sound of water lapping against the shore. Watcher and Qwamay were already through.

Owen tried to back into the hole, but as he was pulling his shoulders through, he smelled the Dragon and felt his hot breath on his face. He tried to raise his sword, but the Dragon stood on the blade, blood dripping from his wounded leg. With an unearthly roar, the beast lunged and Owen covered his face with his hands. The Dragon’s talons slashed his arm to the bone, but Owen felt hands around his ankles, and with a huge pull, he shot through the hole and found himself outside.

Qwamay and Watcher stood over him as blood poured from his arm.

“Call for your sword, Wormling,” Watcher said.

Owen was nearly unconscious, but he managed to cry out, “Sword!”

The blade poked out the hole in the castle wall, but the Dragon had a death grip on its handle. The monster howled as his massive forearms were dragged through the tiny opening, the stone around it cracking. His broad shoulders were lodged tight, his nose peeking out. He tried to open his mouth but didn’t have room, so his snort of fire came from only his nostrils. Choking on his own smoke, he finally let the sword loose and it flew to Owen’s hands.

“Into the water!” Watcher shouted, pressing the sword blade onto Owen’s wounded arm as Qwamay dragged him over the rocks. Rotag floated nearby, waiting to help.

The Dragon struggled fiercely behind them, the stones beginning to give way as a section of the castle wall bulged. The creature’s ugly head disappeared as he backed up for another surge at the opening.

A line of archers appeared along the parapets, and their tiny arrows began piercing the water.

Rotag shouted, “Jump on and hold your breath!”

The three grabbed the gator as arrows rained down.

Then the Dragon burst through the opening, roaring, charging as the castle walls fell.

And Rotag the gator dived deep under the water with his three passengers aboard.

Owen had nearly passed out from lack of oxygen by the time they made it to their subterranean hideout. Tusin helped pull them ashore, though clearly weak from his own injuries. The sword had healed Owen’s wounded arm, but his energy was gone.

“What of the book?” Watcher said.

“It is enough that we have gained the King’s Son,” Owen said. “We can go back for the book later.”

Batwing flew down the shaft and collapsed near them. “The Dragon has the book. He has ordered all his minions to pursue and destroy you.”

“He knows that with my knowledge of the book and our having the King’s Son, we have all we need to overthrow him,” Owen said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Watcher shrieked when she rolled Qwamay over and discovered blood. Owen pushed her out of the way and ripped open the man’s tunic. One of the archers’ tiny arrows had pierced him through the back, the tip coming out his chest.

Qwamay grabbed Owen’s hand. “My breath is slipping. You must go.”

“Where?” Owen said. He held the sword to the wound, but the arrow prevented healing.

“My father had a small cabin in the woods where he would think and dream,” Qwamay said. He shoved a bloody map into Owen’s hand. “Retreat there and rest. Plan your next move.”

“You can’t die,” Owen said. “You’re the key to everything we’ve searched for. Without you, we’re nothing.”

Qwamay pulled him close. “I am not who you think I am. Your search is not over.”

Owen lifted Qwamay. “What do you mean?”

“My father is not the King.”

“Who is he?”

“Mordecai. The captain of the guard.” Qwamay’s eyes rolled back, and his body fell limp.

Owen and Watcher found a patch of soft ground in which to bury Qwamay. Watcher seemed aloof, as if there was something she understood that he didn’t, but she wouldn’t explain.

Owen longed for his home and the simple life over the bookstore, where he could get lost in a story and not have to worry about the outcome. If he didn’t like the way a book ended, he could pick up another.

Still, with the words of The Book of the King echoing in his soul, he knew he had a long way to go in this new world before he could even dream of going home.

* * *

Two days later, under cover of darkness and aided by their new friends, Owen and Watcher reached the cabin of Qwamay’s father. As Owen leafed through a crude desk he found envelopes bearing the King’s official seal. They included commendations for Mordecai, and another contained a letter to the Scribe. So, The Book of the King had been written under the direction of the King but not by the King himself. Perhaps this Scribe would have information about the King’s Son.

They stayed three days in the cabin by the lake, then set off at night. Owen still had Mucker in his tunic, certain that one day he would need his little friend’s help again.

In the counsel of the unholy, the Dragon opened the book and laughed. The Wormling had escaped, yes, along with his Watcher, but a mortal blow had been dealt the one they mistook for the King’s Son.

All around the table, they drank and toasted their leader. They had endured the power of the Wormling and lived to tell about it. But the Wormling had delivered a death blow to four of the most menacing creatures the Dragon had ever devised and had lived to fight another day.

When the Dragon retreated to his room that night, he took the book with him, leafing through it, scoffing, coming up with twists on the truth and turns on the holy writ. As he looked out at his kingdom, he renewed his pledge to someday rule the Highlands, the Lowlands, and his invisible kingdom.

But the verse the Wormling had read kept coming back to him, sending a shiver up his spine.

He will injure the heel, but the Son will crush his head.

About the Authors

Jerry B. Jenkins (jerryjenkins.com) is the writer of the Left Behind series. He owns the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild, an organization dedicated to mentoring aspiring authors. Former vice president for publishing for the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago, he also served many years as editor of Moody magazine and is now Moody’s writer-at-large.

His writing has appeared in publications as varied as Reader’s Digest, Parade, Guideposts, in-flight magazines, and dozens of other periodicals. Jenkins’s biographies include books with Billy Graham, Hank Aaron, Bill Gaither, Luis Palau, Walter Payton, Orel Hershiser, and Nolan Ryan, among many others. His books appear regularly on the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and Publishers Weekly best-seller lists.

Jerry is also the writer of the nationally syndicated sports-story comic strip Gil Thorp, distributed to newspapers across the United States by Tribune Media Services.

Jerry and his wife, Dianna, live in Colorado and have three grown sons and four grandchildren.

* * *

Chris Fabry is a writer and broadcaster who lives in Colorado. He has written more than 50 books, including collaboration on the Left Behind: The Kids and Red Rock Mysteries series.

You may have heard his voice on Focus on the Family, Moody Broadcasting, or Love Worth Finding. He has also written for Adventures in Odyssey and Radio Theatre.

Chris is a graduate of the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. He and his wife, Andrea, have nine children, two dogs, and a large car insurance bill.