“You’re among the first living souls who’ve heard this,” Owen said. “You don’t believe it at all.”
Mordecai tossed seashells into the water. “I confess I pictured the Son a little taller, maybe a little older.”
“See?” Owen said. “Even you don’t believe.”
“From what you have said about your travels, you have faced much danger with admirable courage. . . .” He moved closer and seemed to study Owen’s head in the moonlight. “But there was no doubt injury, and I’m wondering whether—”
“Whether I hit my head and now I’m crazy? Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to have this all be a dream and wake up at home and just go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to be the King’s Son. I have not desired the responsibility or the station.”
“But The Book of the King says, ‘Great responsibility comes to those with a royal bloodline.’ And perhaps the strange man who sought you out in the Highlands knew the truth.”
“So you do believe me?”
Mordecai pressed his lips together. “I want to, lad, but how can you be both Wormling and Son?”
Owen sat in the sand, a chill wind whipping his face. “I struggle with that as well. But one does not negate the other. I am also from a small town in the Highlands and known as Owen Reeder. That I was him does not make it impossible for me to be the Wormling, does it?”
Mordecai lowered himself heavily beside Owen. “It just seems strange that you were given a task that leads you to this discovery. It’s almost as if you were deceived.”
Owen shrugged. “But had I been told at the beginning that I was the King’s Son, I would have run, frightened and unbelieving, daunted by the task ahead. Don’t you see? It was all those days searching and training and hiking and learning that prepared me for the truth.”
“But is it not also possible—” Mordecai paused, softening his voice, seeming to carefully choose his words—“that after all the searching and wrong turns, perhaps you talked yourself into believing that you were the one?”
“Why would I talk myself into something I would not have wished for in the first place? It was Nicodemus who helped me see.”
“Nicodemus?”
“An angel. Invisible being. Whatever you want to call him. He showed me plainly what was directly in front of me.”
Mordecai shrank back, his bearded face a question mark.
And so Owen began again, telling how each step of the way had led him to this conclusion. The wound on his foot that had become a scar. The words of the book.
Mordecai seemed to study him, his eyes finally softening. Then came the sentence that warmed Owen’s heart like nothing before. “And how will we get them to believe?”
“We? You believe? Truly?”
Mordecai struggled to his feet, and Owen joined him. “If what you say is true, it began long ago at your father’s castle. Yes, I do believe. And I kneel before you now and . . .”
“Stand up, Mordecai. What is it?”
Clearly overcome with emotion, Mordecai said, “He has given me a second chance, just as you told me long ago. He knew I would run from my mistakes, that in my shame I would come here. He knew the jargid I loved so much would repel the Kerrol. He used even my mistakes to bring me back to himself.”
“Who?” Owen said.
“Your father. The King. He has used even all this to show his great love for me.” Mordecai threw his arms around Owen and wept.
Owen hugged him just as tightly, and when the man pulled away, he held Owen’s shoulders firmly. “You are the Son of the King. I can see it in your eyes. Your life has been spared so that you can lead the army into battle, so that through your marriage, the two worlds will unite. I will follow wherever you lead, from this moment forward. I will again follow the King.”
There on the cold beach under the soft moonlight, the army of the King received its first recruit.
* * *
And as the laughter continued in the darkened camp, one small figure stood on a dune overlooking this scene, not laughing but looking on in wonder at the two whose voices carried over the water to his young ears.
The boy’s heart welled within him as the two in the distance embraced, for he was the second recruit.
It has been our custom not to overwhelm you with too much gore, but we come now to an episode that must be shown in all its grotesquerie. If you are among the squeamish, you may want to skip to the next chapter. However, if you do, you may miss important information about the enemy’s strategy.
The archenemy of our hero sat in his lair high above the Lowlands at the table with his council—including Slugspike, a hideous beast whose body was covered with scaly spines too sharp to touch. He had been called in by the Dragon as a last resort to discover the hiding place of the Wormling.
The Dragon picked at his teeth, perhaps trying to free some bit of fresh flesh of an underling who had not accomplished an assignment. He turned to his trusted aide, RHM, Reginald Handler Mephistopheles. His voice was raspy and grating as he studied a fingernail. “I said I wanted an answer to the Wormling’s whereabouts. Is there no one who can bring me answers?”
“Sire, all available searchers are combing the countryside.”
“All available?” the Dragon spat. “Which means some are not looking for him? Do you understand what is at stake? Why would you not send every searcher?”
“Some are in the Highlands guarding Onora, daughter of the king of the west, and Gwenolyn, daughter of the King.”
“Keep one on Onora and pull the rest,” the Dragon hissed. “I am through toying with this imp. I want his body. And the same for this Watcher of his. Kill them on sight—do not even attempt to bring them here for questioning.”
“A wise decision, O great one,” Slugspike said.
“And where is the Changeling?” the Dragon said. “If that truly was the Wormling in the Castle on the Moor pretending to be the Changeling, the real one must be somewhere in that swamp.”
“Again, sire,” RHM said, “we have all available—”
“I don’t want to hear how many are available! I want to hear that you have located even one of the enemies I seek! Do you not comprehend what is happening?”
The members of the council stared at the table. RHM bowed nearly to the floor as if hoping not to be consumed by the fire that gurgled in the Dragon’s throat.
“We are close to realizing the magnificent dream I conceived so long ago,” the Dragon said. “The King thrown down and crushed. All he has worked so hard to create snuffed out like his tiny life. And it all hinges on this Wormling, the only connection between the King and his Son.” He leaned near to RHM. “We are so close, and yet, if this scamp escapes, there is still a chance he will succeed.”
“You could always purify the land, O great one,” Slugspike said.
“In due time. When my throne is stained with the blood of Onora and I have killed and buried the Son, then both worlds will worship me and I will cleanse the earth with fire.”
The door flew open and in ran a small winged creature, talons pecking the floor. A deadly rattle surged in the Dragon’s throat, causing the impudent intruder to slide to a stop and throw a wing over his face. “Begging your pardon for not knocking, Your Highness, but I bring news from Mirantha.”
The Dragon turned toward an open window and let go the inferno along with a deafening roar. “That felt good,” he muttered, a puff of black smoke escaping a nostril. “Once I commit to fire, I can’t hold it or it gives me indigestion. Now, what is it, messenger?”
“News from the waters of the Kerrol, sire. One of the transport flyers from the Castle on the Moor crashed into the water there. We spotted fire on the shore and found part of the cage.”
“And what of the Kerrol?”
“He devoured the flyer, sire, but all the humans escaped.”
“How could they possibly crash into the water and escape? Did anyone think to look for tracks in the sand?”
“The fi
re was hastily extinguished, but we found no footprints leading from the site.”
The Dragon’s eyes flashed. “You know what this means, RHM? The Wormling had to be in that group. He was with the transport! Who else would have been able to get out of that?”
“Would he have had arrows, Your Majesty?” the messenger said. “The Kerrol showed me more than a dozen that hit the flyer.”
“He had help,” the Dragon said. “He is beginning to marshal his forces. Now is the time to crush him. Sound the alarm. All who follow me must converge on this area.” He retreated to a corner and pulled from a pile of rubble the gleaming Sword of the Wormling. “Send a message to the Lowlanders that anyone who brings me the body of the Wormling shall inherit his sword and an endless world of riches.”
Slugspike rose. “Allow me, Your Greatness. I will find this defiler of your kingdom and bring his body back to you in pieces.”
The Dragon smiled. “You want the riches.”
“I want to wipe the earth of this brigand and to pave the way for your new kingdom.” He bowed low, the spikes in his legs piercing the floor and emitting a slow leak of green that caused the others to draw back.
“Very well, Slugspike. Lead all my forces and find this Wormling. Kill him and bring what is left of him to me. I am safe as long as I have his sword. He can have the book. He can have his Watcher and whatever rabble he can surround himself with. This is the only thing that can kill me.”
The Dragon sucked air through his teeth and dismissed all but RHM. “I have one more task for you,” he said.
“Anything, sire.”
He handed him a key ring. “Go to the Prisons of Shambal.”
RHM’s mouth fell open. “But, sire—”
“You said anything!”
“Yes, but—”
“You will bring me the minions of time. But keep your movements secret and the minions hidden.”
Watcher awoke with a shiver as a chill wind blew through the cave. She searched the cave for any sign of the Wormling. It didn’t require her special senses to know something was wrong. A whole night had passed since he should have joined her and Humphrey, and Watcher feared the worst.
I should have stayed with him. He told me to take the book and find shelter, but a good friend would have insisted on going with him.
She knew he would have argued until she gave up anyway. The Wormling was stubborn—almost as stubborn as she. She smiled at that despite her dread.
Watcher’s entire life had centered on waiting for the Wormling. She had faithfully done her job until he finally emerged from the other world. Then she had joined him on his adventure to find the Son, leaving her quiet life above the Valley of Shoam and all she had known. But what now? What if the Wormling did not return?
If Watcher was not careful, she could fill every waking moment with such fear. Her dreams were already crowded with Dragons and flames and trying to protect the Wormling.
Each time doubt and indecision crept up on her, she tried to recall passages from The Book of the King, like this one:
Search diligently for the King’s realm and his goodness, and you will be given everything you need. Don’t worry about what will happen tomorrow. Tomorrow will take care of itself.
Easier said than done. Did this apply to her, an animal (though a smart one) in a world of human words and wisdom? Did the King have a plan for her life as well?
Watcher tried to still her troubled heart with thoughts of how far she and the Wormling had come. He had grown strong, and it felt as if they were being drawn toward something—like the tide draws small sea creatures and shells to the shore.
Humphrey, standing there sleeping and snoring as horses do, snorted and fluttered his lips—sometimes frightening Watcher in the night. He looked like a statue except for the occasional twitch or ripple of his great flank muscles. He was strong and steady and clearly smarter than he appeared. If only she could understand horse language. She missed conversations. The Wormling always seemed to calm her heart.
A strip of light invaded the cave as the clouds turned orange and pink. Watcher’s ears twitched with excitement. She loved this time of day, when everything seemed new and fresh. Hearing something, she slipped outside to a path leading to the rocks above the entrance, where she had left a ripped piece of material. She and the Wormling had agreed this would signal her location. It flapped in the breeze.
A querrlis hopped among the branches of a tree, its long, bushy tail twitching, black eyes scanning the ground. Watcher knew it was searching for food. Winter was coming.
The animal barked and showed her its sharp front teeth, then munched a nut and buried itself in a hole in the tree.
Watcher moved back inside the cave. “I feel it too, little one.” The sky felt full of invisibles, all heading in the same direction. She had never felt such strength and power and evil.
They’re searching for the Wormling.
Humphrey stepped up behind her and nudged her with his snout.
“Something bad is happening,” Watcher whispered. “And if they’re looking for him, they’re also looking for us.”
Mucker, the worm the Wormling had used to get from the Highlands to the Lowlands, stirred in Watcher’s fur. She couldn’t help but fear for him as well.
Owen could not convince the king and queen of the west that they needed to move from the shore. He nearly left without them when they again laughed at him and his notion of being the King’s Son. It wasn’t until Mordecai thundered, “You’ll become stew for the Kerrol!” that they picked up their things and followed.
A storm was brewing. The people walked side by side in small groups, Owen leading them and Mordecai bringing up the rear. At times they were forced to walk single file because stone walls rose on either side.
The queen appeared aghast that she had to walk. It bothered Owen that these were the parents of the girl he would one day marry—if he had understood the prophecy correctly. Would his wife be like her mother, demanding to be carried about? Would she whine and moan about rocky crevasses? If she looked like her mother, she would be beautiful, but even that would not make up for attitude.
“I must rest!” the queen cried out. “I am fatigued.”
“Choose fatigue or death,” Mordecai called from behind.
“I simply can’t go another step,” the woman said.
“We’ll leave you, then,” Mordecai said. “Better one die rather than the whole company.”
“Why must you scare us?” the queen sobbed. “You’re worse than the Dragon.”
“Madam,” Mordecai said, “if you think that, you have not met the Dragon.”
“But I have,” she whimpered. “With him, you can negotiate, bargain. With you, there is no compromise.”
“You really think you can reason with the Dragon? There is no negotiating with—”
“That’s not true,” she said. “We negotiated a treaty with him concerning our daughter.”
“And what did the Dragon say just before he threw you in that cage?” Owen said, nostrils flaring. “He said your daughter’s blood would anoint his throne. So much for your treaty.”
“He felt betrayed,” she spat, glaring at her husband. “If you hadn’t helped this urchin, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“He saved our lives from that sea beast,” the king said.
“Oh, I forgot,” she said. “My mistake. Our future son-in-law. A commoner!”
“Enough,” Mordecai said, dragging two logs from a clearing. The king and two other men helped the queen onto the logs as Mordecai and Owen struggled under the weight.
“Comfy now?” Mordecai said.
“The bark is a little rough,” she said.
* * *
The sky grew darker, and Owen thought he heard strange sounds over the footsteps trudging around him. The castle dwellers seemed unaccustomed to traveling, but Owen was grateful to be on the ground and not in the water or the air.
“Small creatures up in the rocks,�
� a young boy said, pointing.
“Good,” Owen said. “They’re friends. The reason we escaped the transport flyer.”
“The ones who shot at us?” the queen said.
“Halt!” someone said from above.
“Erol!” Owen called. “It’s me! I’ve brought friends from the Castle on the Moor.”
“I wouldn’t call them that,” Mordecai muttered.
Erol stared down, smiling. “I never thought you’d be back.”
“Help us up. There’s a strange storm brewing, and—”
“That’s more than a storm,” Erol said. “There are also invisibles and demon flyers about.”
The children of Erol led Owen and the others in a prancing procession to the main cavern. Starbuck, Erol’s son, and many of the others Owen had helped rescue from the Badlands were there, whooping and singing as they danced along. Like a howling wind the storm descended, and Owen was glad to have everyone inside.
Erol welcomed Owen with a hug, and the company sang to him. The people of the castle huddled in the back, apparently afraid of these creatures, but Owen felt as if he had returned home.
“Tell us of your travels,” Erol said.
“In time,” Owen said. “But I have to know. I heard from villagers that you met with foul play by the Dragon, that he had blasted you and your clan from the mountain.”
“We’re doing the attacking,” Starbuck said, beaming.
“That’s right,” Erol said. “We shot down a transport flyer just yesterday.”
“We know,” Owen said. “We were the ones in the cage.”
Erol’s mouth dropped. “You? And all of these? How did you survive?”
After Owen told the story, Erol shook his head and said, “Well, other than the Dragon’s attempt to steal our children, which you foiled, we have not been attacked. Though we have felt an uneasy presence at times.” He leaned close. “Interlopers sent by you know who.”
Owen nodded, then introduced the king and queen of the west.
The Minions of Time Page 3