The Author's Blood (6 page)

And now, though it pains us, we visit the valley near the forest of Emul, which in time shall be known as the Valley of Death and later by another name—for reasons you will see. It is a peaceful place, with mounds of dirt scattered across the hillside like someone has been digging for hidden treasure. It has the feel of a cemetery, quiet and languid. Even the trees seem to slow their swaying in the breeze. Some have been blackened by the heat of battle. A few have bloomed and already returned to their original beauty.

Above the trees, the sky is blue and dotted with clouds rolling lazily past as if unaware of what has gone on below. Of the grief that has gripped the countryside. Of the sorrow and tears and dreams that have been planted for harvest.

Something winged flits about, just under the tree branches. It is Batwing, the diminutive creature who has remained with the others to bury those who have been so mercilessly killed by the Dragon's forces.

Among the survivors are Rogers, the deep-voiced youngster who had been a stable boy for the king of the west, and Starbuck, the son of Erol and a friend of the Wormling. Tusin, assemblyman of the undergroundlings, is also here.

“That is the end,” Starbuck says. “The very last of them. Except for the horse. I don't think we can dig a hole large enough to—”

“Humphrey was his name,” Rogers says. “Please don't refer to them without using their names. We should never forget their names or what they tried to do.”

Starbuck turns. “You're not the only one who lost those you love.”

“Young ones, don't quarrel,” Tusin says. “We must hold together.”

“For what purpose?” Starbuck says. “The Dragon has won. He's defeated us.”

“As long as the King lives, there is hope,” Tusin says. “Remember that and do not despair.”

“My father, mother, brothers, and sisters are buried here. I should have been as well if Rogers hadn't dragged me to the cave up the mountain.”

“Be thankful he saved your life.”

“I would rather have died fighting the Dragon's forces with my friends. At least I would have died with my dignity.”

Tusin sits on a rock and leans against his walking stick. “There is great dignity in caring for those who have lost their lives. Their graves cry out for justice.”

“There will be no justice,” Starbuck says, eyes flashing and tears forming. “How can there be when there is no army? We have no hope.”

“Didn't you say the Wormling told your father he would sing a song of victory when the Dragon is overthrown?”

“He did.”

“And does the Wormling lie?”

“He lies dead inside the White Mountain.”

“Then perhaps we should retrieve his body and bury it here.”

“You know the mountain is probably guarded,” Starbuck says, looking at the sky. “And it's only a matter of time before the forces of the Dragon return to kill us.”

“How can you be sure?” Tusin says. “How can you know that things spoken by the Wormling will not come true?”

“A wedding? Victory over the Dragon? It's nothing more than a story.”

“Didn't he pledge something to you?” Rogers says.

“The Wormling promised my father that he would be by his side when victory came and sing. And here he lies, covered with dirt.”

Rogers wanders up the hillside alone and stops at the knoll where Humphrey fell. Humphrey had carried him and Starbuck as he galloped from the Dragon's forces. When the horse fell, Rogers had grabbed Starbuck and scrambled into a cave just as a fiery blast consumed their friends and Humphrey.

The screeching and the burning and the crying of the attack flood over him, and though Rogers puts his hands over his ears, he cannot drown out the sounds, though it has been many days.

Using a crude shovel of wood and stone, Rogers digs a hole beside the horse, and the tears come. Like Starbuck, he had been so filled with hope when he heard stories of the Wormling, and then when he had met him that hope inside rose up like a lion. But now . . .

He digs into the rocky soil until his hands blister and the shovel falls apart. He continues digging until his fingers bleed, crying and clawing and talking to Humphrey and his other friends. He misses the Scribe's voice—crackly and old but full of wisdom. He misses the anger of Connor, who had first yelled the warning of the attack and tried to get his wife, Dreyanna, to safety.

Most of all, Rogers misses Watcher. She was so kind. How anything could harm her, he didn't know. She was the most pure, loving, and sensitive creature he had ever met, yet she was also a fierce warrior. He blinks his tears away, but he cannot blink away the last vision he had of her. She had turned to fight, a mere speck against the enemies arrayed against them. With her ears straight and her back arched, she grabbed a spear from one of Connor's men and aimed it at the heart of a beast flying toward them.

The blast of fire had thrown her onto her back on a rock. Rogers wanted to run to her, but he was galloping away on Humphrey's back. The horse had hesitated when Watcher fell, as if he too had sensed the loss. She reached out toward them. . . .

These images and more run through Rogers's mind the deeper he digs. Night falls and the moon is bright, illuminating his workplace.

Soon he hears footsteps. A fog rises and shrouds the countryside as a lone figure approaches out of the darkness.

Rogers crawls into the hole he dug for Humphrey, picks up a stone, and waits.

The fog drifted up to eerily shroud the visitor like a phantom. Rogers had heard stories (mostly from Starbuck) of evil beings stalking the places of the dead. With this figure walking down the mountain, the moonlight behind him, a hood over his head, Rogers's mind ran wild. Could this be a friend of the Dragon? Had they watched and waited until all the bodies were buried only to attack the living?

Rogers trembled in the hole and gripped the rock. He wished he had gone back to the fire with Starbuck and Tusin before nightfall. At least there he would die with his friends.

The stranger ambled to the edge of the hole. “Dig this yourself?” His voice was strong and compassionate, as familiar as the scent of a meal cooked by someone who loved you.

“Yes,” Rogers said, still trembling. “What do you want?”

The stranger knelt and put his hands on his knees, surveying the foggy, moonlit countryside. “What happened?”

“Are you a stranger?” Rogers said. “Have you not heard what the Dragon's forces did to the warriors of the Wormling?”

“Tell me.”

“The Wormling told us to leave the White Mountain and we did, just before the Dragon killed him with a blast of fire. No sooner was the Wormling dead than the Dragon amassed his armies against us—before we even had a chance to arm ourselves. They came with fire and venom, and we had no chance.”

The stranger scanned the valley, studying the hundreds upon hundreds of graves that rose up in the moonlight. “Did you bury all these yourself?”

“With a few friends,” Rogers said. “This is the last, the one who saved my friend and me. We are lucky to be alive.”

The stranger moved toward Humphrey, covered with blankets Rogers had taken from other bodies.

“I had to cover him or he would stink,” Rogers said.

The stranger—whether from fatigue or emotion, Rogers could not tell—rested his head against the body of the horse and whispered something that drifted off in the night.

“What are you doing?” Rogers said.

“Come up here.”

As soon as Rogers had climbed from the pit, the man rolled the horse into the hole without so much as a finger of help from Rogers.

“How strong are you? He weighs a ton.”

“It was his heart that was huge,” the man said as if he knew Humphrey, and Rogers thought he saw a tear reflected by the moonlight. “You are not lucky, you know,” he said.

“Sir?”

“It was not luck that allowed you to survive. There was a purpose.”

“Yes, to bury the dead.”

“An honorable chore,” the man said, filling in the hole around Humphrey's body with the shovel. “But there is more to accomplish.”

When the stranger had finished, he patted the earth covering Humphrey and leaned down as if saying a final word to the horse, his chin and mouth visible to Rogers for the first time. “Your future is a bright one, Rogers. Didn't the Wormling say you would be there when he defeats the Dragon?”

“How do you know that?” Rogers said, recoiling.

“Come,” the man said. “Take me to your friends.”

Owen's heart broke as he walked past the graves of his friends to the camp. Rogers and the others had drawn simple pictures of the people buried there, as these dear ones could not read or write, so deep was the Dragon's hold on them.

Rogers squinted at him as if trying to figure out who this shrouded figure was and whether he could trust him.

Owen crept toward the fire and put his hand on the lad's shoulder. “Don't wake the others. I can see how tired they are. Get some rest and I'll see you at first light.”

Owen passed a great mound of earth under the picture of a massive, bearded man. “Mordecai,” he whispered, “this world was not worthy of you. Rest well, my friend. We will meet again.”

As the fog lifted, Owen found the graves of Erol and his wife, Kimshi. The weight of the losses hit him hard, and the words of Nicodemus came back to him:
“You are not alone, young prince. Keep the book close until every word is fulfilled. And remember what I have said. No matter what you find—or what finds you.”

Owen found the place where they had laid Watcher. At the head of her small grave were flowers, wrapped into a crude bouquet. The picture did not do her justice, but it had been drawn with love.

“I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you, Watcher. I wish I had seen this coming.”

The memory of her voice came back to him. She had been skittish toward him when he first came to the Lowlands. Though she had waited all her life to see a Wormling, he didn't fit the image she must have had of him. She had died without knowing that he was not just the Wormling but the King's Son.

Watcher had confided in him just before he went to the White Mountain that she had lost her power to sense invisibles. Owen had comforted her by quoting
The Book of the King: When the Son comes, he will make everything new again. The old will pass away, and the original order will be restored.

He had told her in the end, “When I return, you will see the Son.”

Now, by the grave, Owen whispered, “I told you to trust me. That your powers would be restored and you would be forgiven.” He lay over the grave. “When the King's prophecy is completed, I will see you again. But I thought you would be here and we'd fight the Dragon together.”

Owen was alone. His father had left him. Nicodemus, his confidant and protector, was gone. And his dearest, most faithful friend in the Lowlands lay beneath the ground.

Owen fought to breathe through his sobs.