The Minions of Time

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “And the flyer from Diamondhead? Have you rewarded it for its report?”

  “Absolutely. It sits even now in the dining hall devouring the remains of whatever you killed yesterday.”

  “Whatever or whoever?” the Dragon said, chuckling. He looked outside at the gathering light. “A pity that day comes so soon. How I love when darkness envelops and grips the land. People are more afraid in the dark—did you know that?”

  RHM nodded. “Their teeth chatter, and their eyes widen when you prowl—”

  “Oh, stop it!” the Dragon roared, enraptured, eyes twinkling. “It makes me want to go burn a village right now. Or at least scatter some sheep and eat a small shepherd or two.” He licked his lips and snorted. “And maybe swoop down on a few of the runners—you know, the ones who scurry from the villages and try to make it to the tree line? That’s one of my favorite pastimes.”

  “Your specialty, sire.”

  The Dragon sighed. “I will do greater works than those, my friend. The big show isn’t far away now. Once we refine the last of the precious stones and get them to the White Mountain, we make the world anew—into what it was meant to be.”

  “I only hope that one day I might be—”

  “As powerful as I?”

  “Well, that’s too much to dream. But close.”

  The Dragon studied his front claws and rolled his eyes. “You may aspire to greatness, RHM. You may imitate, but there is only one of me. And there will be only one nest of offspring.”

  “Offspring?”

  “How could that have escaped from my mouth? I expect you to keep that slip of the tongue to yourself.”

  “But, sire, what—?”

  Footsteps in the hallway ended with a light tap on the door. The Dragon beckoned with a booming voice, and a timid creature with shaking limbs walked in. He lowered his head respectfully, and the Dragon roared at him.

  “Begging your pardon, sire, but there’s a matter of great importance I thought you would—”

  A horn sounded outside, and the tiny beast seemed to nearly wet himself.

  The Dragon pointed a sharpened talon at him. “Wait here.”

  With RHM in tow, the Dragon strode down the hall, through the bedroom, and onto the parapet overlooking the water.

  Just below, the horn blower ducked when he saw the Dragon. “Sorry to disturb you, Highness. Someone approaches from the wood.”

  The Dragon saw a speck in the distance, limping toward the castle. “RHM, what is that?”

  The aide gasped. “I believe it’s the Changeling, sire.”

  Not long later they helped the battered and bruised Changeling into the castle. He coughed and sputtered.

  “Where are your prisoners?” the Dragon demanded.

  “Do not spare me, O great one,” the Changeling said. “I have failed you and your magnificent kingdom. The Watcher beguiled me with stories, and when I least expected it, she and the horse descended on me with a fierceness I have seldom seen. I had no chance even to turn myself into something else. She bit and scratched and clawed, and the horse kicked me until I was as bruised as a month-old banana.”

  “How did they find you out?” the Dragon said, seething.

  The Changeling lolled his head. “Oh, I can’t say any more. Please just turn me to ash, O great one. I deserve it.”

  “Yes, you do. A painful death.”

  “Make me writhe,” the Changeling said.

  RHM moved back, clearly fearing the inevitable blast.

  But the Dragon leaned closer and studied the Changeling’s bruises. “I would rather you live and serve me with your special talents than pay such a terrible price.”

  The Changeling’s eyes snapped open as if he had just realized it was his birthday. “Ask me for anything, and I will do it.”

  The Dragon’s muscles tensed. “How long ago did they elude you?”

  “Not long. They can’t be far. I came as quickly as I could.”

  The Dragon shot into the air, plainly forgetting the parapet’s stone arch. Banging it sent debris flying. “Find them! Send every available being, and do not fail me this time!”

  The Changeling sprang up and ran outside, ordering flyers and searchers to follow.

  The Dragon returned to the stairway, where the timid creature stood. “Now, what was important enough for you to disturb us?”

  Trembling, he said, “The transport flyers have not arrived with the load of gems, O revered one.”

  “What? They should have arrived long ago! RHM, fetch me the demon flyer.”

  “We have reports,” the shaking guard added, “that two transport flyers were seen heading north. No demon flyer accompanied the shipment, but there were prisoners in the cages.”

  “Prisoners?” the Dragon repeated.

  “Yes, and the report said it looked like a human rode on the back of one of the transport flyers.”

  RHM returned with the demon flyer—invisible to humans but not to the Dragon and his underlings. This flyer bore smallish wings, long fangs and talons, and a belly so full of food and drink that it could hardly stand. When it walked, it sloshed like a bucket of water. It saluted and nearly toppled. “It is my pleasure to serve you,” the flyer managed, then belched.

  The Dragon took a soothing tone. “Who told you the mining was complete?”

  “One of the guards.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “The usual, sire. Animal skins, gruff voice, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t paying much attention. I was so excited to—”

  “It is your job to pay attention,” the Dragon boomed.

  The demon flyer immediately dropped to his knees, as if he knew what was coming.

  “Did the guard tell you to make haste and come tell me the good news? Or was that your idea?”

  “His, sire. I—I didn’t want to—to leave the convoy, b-but he insisted, assuring me you would b-be pl-pleased, so—”

  “So pleased that I would offer you your weight in food and drink. Is that it?”

  “No, sire. I simply wanted—”

  Molten fire shot from the Dragon’s mouth and enveloped the poor creature. All watching turned away, except the Dragon, who delighted in the fireworks. He coughed, swallowed, and turned to the window, where daylight streamed in with great intensity. “This has the Wormling written all over it. If the miners have been freed, he gathers an army.”

  “That is nothing to you,” RHM said. “What good is that pip-squeak without his sword and without the Son he’s been seeking?”

  The Dragon’s eyes drooped and then shot back and forth, as if he were computing some long math problem. “Perhaps he prepares the army for the Son’s return. Or worse, perhaps he has found the Son.”

  The Dragon scratched his back and turned to go upstairs. The timid creature cowered in the corner as he passed.

  “The passage in that infernal book,” he wheezed. “What did it say?”

  “Which, sire?” RHM said.

  The Dragon’s eyes drooped and then shot back and forth, as if he were computing some long math problem. “This is all about the King’s Son. Perhaps the Wormling prepares the army for the Son’s return.”

  The Dragon muttered something he had read in The Book of the King—at least something that had stuck in his head but his heart could not understand. He turned to RHM. “Our task is simple. If we can keep the Wormling from returning to the Highlands and finding this Son, any threat against me will be gone. All we must do is kill the Wormling.”

  While Watcher met and planned with Rotag and Tusin, Batwing left on a spying trip to the castle. He returned after a long while with word that while the Sword of the Wormling was not there, he had overheard wonderful news about the Wormling himself. Batwing told of his possibly being spotted on his way to the White Mountain.

  Watcher couldn’t help but be overjoyed. “He must have been caught somehow, thrown in with the others, and found a way to escape.”

  “It does sound like the nature
of the Wormling,” Tusin said. “But why would he be going in the direction of the White Mountain?”

  “Perhaps he has discovered where the Son is,” Rotag said.

  “We have friends near the White Mountain,” Watcher said. “I must go there at once.”

  “It is a long journey,” Batwing said, “even for me. By the time you arrive, the Dragon would have been there and gone.”

  “Is there some other way?” Watcher said.

  Tusin tapped his lower lip with a claw and paced. “Perhaps.”

  Rotag glanced at him. “I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  Tusin looked up. “You know he is sorry for what he did—”

  “He betrayed us and the King,” Rotag snapped. “He is the reason many died at the hands of the Dragon and why we must meet in secret.”

  “Who?” Watcher said.

  Tusin sat near her and leaned forward, paws on his knees. “Many seasons ago, four of us pledged allegiance to the King and vowed to stand against the Dragon. The fourth was Machree, a flyer with a great wingspan.”

  “But not much sense,” Rotag mumbled.

  “Somehow the Dragon or his followers got him to reveal the location of our council. Many died.”

  “What happened to Machree?” Watcher said.

  “He took the blood money and flew away,” Rotag said.

  “He lives in the Great Forest,” Tusin said, “one of the King’s favorite places. He loved to walk there in the early morning.”

  “It might take days to find him,” Rotag said. “And besides, I am totally against this.”

  “I could find him and have him here within the hour,” Batwing said.

  Rotag rolled his eyes and shook his great head.

  “It’s worth the risk,” Watcher said. “Please find him, Batwing. And hurry.”

  Owen’s transport flyer raced into the teeth of a strong, biting wind, so he steered it lower to warmer air. He could tell the huddled people in the cages were freezing.

  Everything in Owen screamed that he should find the Queen and release her, yet The Book of the King made clear that the next prophecy to fulfill was that he return to the Highlands.

  The time of the Son draws near. When the Wormling has accomplished the breach of the four portals of the Dragon, prepare the way for the armies of the King. Let every kindred, tongue, and tribe of the Lowlands ready themselves for battle, for the time of the Great Stirring has begun. And this stirring will lead to the Final Union of the Son and his bride. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad when the signs point to his return.

  Owen let the words wash over him anew. How he wished he could read The Book of the King front to back—including the missing chapter—with the new knowledge that he himself was the Son. But why were there blank pages in the back? He had never read the end of the battle with the Dragon. It was shrouded in mysterious language. Had he missed a prophecy?

  A cry came from the cage beneath the other flyer, not of fear but delight. The clouds dissolved to reveal splendor in the distance. The White Mountain rose, majestic and brilliant, the sun glinting off its snowcapped slopes, golden and white against a dazzling blue sky. I wish Watcher could see this, Owen thought, nearly choking up.

  As they drew closer, the transport flyers dipped and jerked through wind swells like skiffs on the waves near the islands of Mirantha.

  Owen guided them past the villages at the base of the mountain. Mothers and fathers called for children in snow-covered fields, and the kids stared and waved as they passed.

  They rose through the pass where vaxors had attacked them, and Owen shuddered at the memory of how far Humphrey had jumped from the precipice.

  Why had the King entrusted Owen with this responsibility? Had the King given him power he hadn’t tapped into yet? What rights might he have as the Son that he didn’t know or understand?

  Though Owen wanted to know everything now, he knew he would not have been able to handle it all at once. Had he been told back at the bookstore every detail of his journey, he’d surely have given up before he started. First he had to come to believe he was the Wormling. Now he had to accept the responsibility of being the Son. Knowing the King’s blood coursed through his veins gave him courage and strength. He had never felt like royalty in the bookstore. His father the King had mapped out the plan thus far, and Owen was determined to follow him the rest of the way.

  Watcher had the book and Mucker, who was vital to the next stage of Owen’s quest. His plan, once he reached Yodom, was to find her in the caves where he had left her. But he had to do this quickly before the Dragon and his cohorts discovered him.

  The farther up the mountain he flew, the more he felt as if he were in a shaken snow globe. Huge flakes came sideways, so fast and heavy he couldn’t even see the other transport flyer. He just hoped the flyers could sense the mountain and not plow into it.

  Owen forced the flyer to descend, and the tether tightened as they fell. Near the ground the flyer flapped faster, hovering and blowing much snow away.

  “We’ll walk from here,” Owen said as he opened the cages. “We can find shelter in a nearby village.”

  “The people are cold,” Connor said. “Let’s build a fire and wait out the storm.”

  Owen pulled Connor out of earshot of the others. “You have a heart of a warrior, but we must work together. Soon you’ll be in charge of all these people. I want you as my general to oversee the troops.”

  “Where are you going?” Connor said.

  “I have an important mission in the Highlands. I must again breach the four portals. Then we must prepare for the wedding of the Son and the battle with the Dragon.”

  “In that order?” Connor said.

  Owen closed his eyes and recited from The Book of the King the first words he had read from it in the Highlands:

  “When the shadows of two worlds collide and the four portals are breached, know that the end of the reign of the evil one is near. Men will bring news of the return of justice and righteousness, along with the return of the Son. What has been two will be made one throughout the land. Make way a path in the wilderness for the Searcher. Open the portal for the Wormling, for he will be armed with the book.

  “Let there be rejoicing in every hill and valley, from the tops of the mountains to the depths of the oceans. Let every creature that has breath, on earth and under and over, cry out. Victory is at hand. The shadows will be dispelled, and the Son will return for his bride.”

  Connor stared at Owen. “So you don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps the war ends before the wedding begins. Perhaps the other way around. The book does not say specifically.”

  Connor’s wife came and whispered, “The women and children are losing feeling in their fingers and toes.”

  Owen took off his animal skin and gave it to her.

  “Prepare the children,” Connor told her. “We move up the mountain shortly.”

  Dreyanna looked at him sharply, but he nodded and she went back to the others.

  Owen untied the rope from one transport flyer and smacked its back end, as if to release it. The beast simply looked at him as if it wasn’t going anywhere without its companion.

  “Maybe they’re married,” Connor said.

  “Maybe they don’t want to go back to the Dragon.”

  Batwing returned to Watcher and the others with the news that he had found Machree in the forest, but the bird would not even listen.

  “I told you he was not worth considering,” Rotag said.

  “Did you tell him the importance of this mission?” Watcher said.

  Batwing nodded. “I tried everything short of bribery, but he said he knew the council members were against him and that he would rather be left alone.”

  Watcher looked at the ground. “All that speed and power and ability. How can he let that go to waste? To have strength and not use it for the King is—”

  “Normal for most,” Tusin said. “And understa
nd this about the King: He does not use us because we are strong. He uses us in spite of our weaknesses. We all have something that holds us back. Perhaps our pride. Perhaps some physical difficulty. Lack of intelligence. Slowness of speech. The King uses our faults even more than he uses our strengths.”

  “What does that have to do with getting me back to the Wormling?” Watcher said.

  Rotag cleared his throat. “Perhaps the King has prepared some other way. Or perhaps he does not want you back with the Wormling just now.”

  “But I have the book. And I have Mucker. He needs these. I sense it with everything in me.” She turned to Batwing. “Can you take me to Machree?”

  “Much too dangerous,” Tusin said.

  Rotag huffed. “Out of the question.”

  “The Dragon’s forces would be on you in a second. Batwing can fly under their vision and skirt them, but they would—”

  “I have no other choice,” Watcher said. “I have to find the Wormling. Batwing, will you take me?”

  Batwing looked at the others, then nodded.

  Watcher crawled out of the underground cavern muddy and wet, which made her more difficult to spot from the air. Batwing flew ahead of her, searching for any unfriendlies, while Watcher darted from tree to tree until they came to the Great Forest.

  “Wait here,” Batwing said.

  Watcher hid behind a rock, trying to stay still but mostly shivering and her teeth chattering.

  A whoosh above startled her, and she spotted an enormous winged creature heading for her. If Batwing hadn’t described Machree beforehand, she would have sworn the bird was from the Dragon.

  The wings were multicolored—but mostly brown and white—and the face was that of a hawk with a sharp beak and piercing eyes. “You are the Watcher?” he said, his voice high-pitched.

  She nodded. “I’ve come to plead with you on behalf of the Wormling.”

  The bird blinked and quickly looked both ways. “Pleading will do you no good.”

  “You do not wish to help the King?”

  “Perhaps if it were the King asking.”

  “The Wormling represents the King. He is on an important mission from him. I have The Book of the King here with me to prove it.”