The Minions of Time

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Owen could tell they were close to the surface of the Highlands because the earth was darker and more fertile—good for farming. Mucker accelerated because Owen was so captivated by the book.

  “When the Son has been discovered and the portal is breached, prepare for wails and mourning. What is young shall become old, and that which is alive and vibrant shall be laid waste.”

  Owen pondered the words, falling silent long enough for Mucker to actually stop—not a good thing in the middle of the earth with no air pockets other than those provided by the hard-charging worm. Owen quickly realized this meant his own demise and began reading again.

  “But do not despair, for this has been written that you might know that victory is yours. The Son shall overcome the plan of the evil one through the strength of the King. And justice shall be given for the anguish and pain meted out by this enemy. Truly, a new chapter shall be written in the battle for the two worlds.”

  Owen was the Son, the one who would lead the army into battle. And he was the one who would marry the princess—a prospect almost more difficult to comprehend than winning a great battle. But if the King had prepared him for the fight, surely he would prepare him for a wedding and married life as well.

  “The Son shall find his bride perfectly suited for him—a friend and constant companion, one whose love cannot be compared.”

  That last made Owen blush. He didn’t know a thing about girls, how to talk to them without stuttering and laughing. The closest he had come to normal conversation was with Clara Secrest back home, but how would he do with someone he didn’t even know? If he could believe The Book of the King about being a warrior and the true Son, he could believe he would be given what he needed when it came time to face this love hurdle—the taking of a bride.

  Mucker’s munching and crunching accelerated, and soon he was through the loamy soil and into a small chamber just below the surface. Mucker took up nearly all the space in the chamber, and Owen moved around examining the scorched walls and a bare place in the middle of the earthen floor that hadn’t been scorched at all. Owen stood in the middle of that bare spot and held his sword high. It clanked against something metal, and with a little probing, he cleared dirt and grass roots away to uncover a small circular door, like a manhole cover, with hinges and a spring.

  The effort caused Owen to move the dirt at his feet and unearth a small metal object black as soot. He rolled it with his toe to where he could pick it up, and when he held it close, it seemed familiar.

  He gasped. It was the object Mr. Page had removed from his heel so long ago! He put it in his pocket.

  “What is this place, Mucker?” Owen said, noticing the worm had already begun to shrink.

  Owen touched his sword to a small lever beside the spring, and the cover fell open into the hole. A shaft of sunlight hit him full in the face, and he had to shade his eyes.

  Owen climbed through the hole to find the knoll burned black. He sat staring at the town in the distance, glad to be home but also already longing for the Lowlands and his friends there.

  A scream wafted over the hills and startled him. He hopped back inside the chamber and picked up Mucker, now about the size of a small dog, and tucked him under his arm. Shoving his sword through his belt, he climbed out and ran toward the town.

  A faint buzzing met him near the almost deserted streets. A few cars passed, and a man coming out of a grocery store gave him a strange look, then opened his cell phone and made a call.

  Owen headed for Tattered Treasures. He wasn’t sure what he would say to the man who had pretended to be his father, but he wanted to hear his story.

  He was near the laundry when a squad car pulled up, lights flashing. Two officers emerged and one said, “Hold it right there, son.”

  Owen stuck Mucker inside his shirt, and both officers pulled their guns. Owen realized they were focused on his sword.

  “Hands in the air and turn around,” the first officer said.

  The second circled behind him and pulled the sword from his belt, whistling. “Sharp! No kid’s toy. Where’d you get this?”

  “From a friend.”

  “Been using it to dig? There’s dirt on the edges. What were you planning to do with this?”

  “Nothing. I was just walking home.”

  “Which is where?”

  “The bookstore down the street.”

  The sword clanged against the concrete behind him. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Owen. Owen Reeder.”

  “I didn’t recognize him at first,” one said. “But he sure looks a lot like him, doesn’t he?”

  “In the car, Reeder. You’re coming with us.”

  Owen wanted to tell them everything, but surely they’d admit him to an insane asylum. The Valley of Shoam, the Castle of the Pines, Erol’s clan, the islands of Mirantha, the White Mountain, a Dragon, the King? Uh-huh.

  “I was on a trip,” Owen said.

  The radio squawked something about an attack.

  “Buckle up, kid. We need to take this call.”

  They raced down a residential street and into a subdivision of nice houses with rolling green lawns, passed a soccer field, and pulled up to a house.

  The officers left Owen locked in the back and separated from his sword and the front seat by a shield of Plexiglas. There were no handles on the inside of the back doors. He was trapped.

  A woman in a bathrobe stumbled onto the porch crying and pointing, and the officers followed her inside.

  A child on a bike slowed, looking at Owen.

  Owen pounded on the window. “Let me out of here! I have to get home! Please open the door!”

  The kid stopped and stared blankly, then glanced around and pedaled away quickly. Behind him flew some sort of buzzing, clicking creature, larger than a bee and more like a small bird, though it passed so fast that Owen could not get a good look at it.

  When the officers returned, one said, “I’ve had a lot of weird calls, but this is a first. Bee sting. Can you believe it?”

  “Looked pretty nasty,” the other said. “More like a bite than a sting, but what do I know? Maybe it’s a rabid bee.”

  Owen leaned forward. “I saw something pass the car while you guys were inside—”

  “Sit back, kid! You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Trouble? What have I done?”

  “Your old man is in a lot of trouble. And if I were you, I’d try giving a straight story instead of the stuff he’s been dishing out about coming from some other dimension, that he wasn’t really your dad and was only supposed to watch you and make sure you didn’t get away.”

  The second officer turned. “He’s been charged with your murder, trial to begin next week. Your showing up will put a little crimp in that case.”

  A few minutes later the officers paraded Owen before the chief of police, a balding man with a white mustache and coffee-stained teeth. He studied Owen like a specimen on a slide. “Sure looks like him. Guess we won’t know for sure until we do a DNA match with that crazy old bird who claims he’s been keeping the boy away from the Dragon.”

  “What?” Owen said, sitting up.

  “Well, it talks,” the chief said. “Would you mind telling us where you’ve been the past few weeks?”

  “Glad to,” Owen said. “But first I want to talk with my father.”

  “So he is your father?” the man said. “Set them up in interrogation three.”

  Owen had seen enough police shows to know the officers were behind the big window in the wall, watching and listening to every word. But he didn’t care. He also knew from The Book of the King that his return to the Highlands had a higher purpose. But what?

  He whispered, “‘The hands of the King hold the heart of his Son. The King directs it like a channel of water and makes it go where he pleases. Everyone thinks they know which way to go, but the King looks deep into the heart.’”

  Through his shirt Owen patted Mucker, now shrunk to his orig
inal size. “Rest, my friend. You did well to get us here.”

  Owen’s father wore handcuffs and looked tired and older than when Owen had last seen him. He sat heavily as his escorting officer stepped out.

  “You’re back,” Mr. Reeder said. “How were your travels?”

  “Interesting. Dangerous. More exciting than I could ever have imagined.”

  A hint of a smile broke on the man’s face. “Did you use the pictures I gave you?”

  “I found the woman. I returned her son to her.”

  Mr. Reeder sat bolt upright. “From the White Mountain? What do you mean you returned him?”

  “He’s safe and back with his mother. But clouds gather on the Lowlands. There will be an attack.” Owen licked his chapped lips, his mouth dry. He whispered, “Why did you pretend to be what you were not?”

  “It was the only way I knew to get my son back,” Mr. Reeder said.

  Owen’s mind flashed to the blond-haired boy in the cavern, his mother in Yuhrmer, and the frozen arm sticking out of the mountain. “But I found the boy’s father on the mountain. Dead.”

  “There are things you still do not know,” Mr. Reeder said, “even after reading the book.” He searched Owen’s face, as if trying to communicate something without speaking. “There are shadows here and echoes of this place in the Lowlands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Someone screamed down the hall. Owen heard chairs slide on the floor behind the window and people running.

  “The minions have been loosed,” Mr. Reeder said.

  “Minions?”

  “Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Could Owen trust this man? He had lived with him as his son for years. How could Mr. Reeder have kept the truth from him for so long? Maybe because his real son’s life depended on it.

  Owen ran to the door and peeked out. Everyone had raced to the screams echoing down the hallway.

  “They’re inside!” a man said. “Hundreds of ’em! Get in an office and shut the door!”

  Owen shut the door and looked pleadingly at Mr. Reeder.

  “I told you,” the man said. “The minions have been here for days. They’re the Dragon’s special creation—part bee, part lion, and part venomous snake. They inject venom into humans that makes them age quickly. Enough venom and the human can die. Otherwise a drop can age a person many years.”

  “Why would he unleash them here in the Highlands?”

  “Who knows the mind of the Dragon or why he does what he does? I despaired of ever getting back to my family, and once you left, I knew my son was doomed.”

  “You are from Yuhrmer. You worked for the blacksmith there.”

  Mr. Reeder’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think this?”

  “Your wife is the baker Drushka. She gave us bread for our journey. But why didn’t she recognize your picture?”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “A Watcher was my constant companion in the Lowlands. And a horse.”

  “Do you have a weapon?” the man said.

  Owen told him of the Sword of the Wormling and that the officers had confiscated it.

  “Then it is true. That is your identity.”

  Owen nodded. “I won’t leave here without it. Now tell me, is your wife the baker?”

  “In a way, yes. I would explain, but we are out of time.”

  Something hit the window in the door, and the man recoiled. Owen studied the face of the creature, ignoring the horror in favor of his overwhelming curiosity. Its eyes bugged out but looked human. The sharp teeth covered a slithering tongue, and its wings were golden brown and leathery. It had four legs with sharp spines and something that looked like sharpened metal on the end. It growled at Owen and made a squeaking sound that brought other minions to the door.

  There was no other exit, so Owen flicked off the light and ordered Mr. Reeder to sit with his back to the door.

  “If they don’t see or hear us,” Owen whispered, “maybe they’ll lose interest.”

  The two settled into a long silence, broken only by the beasts trying to burrow under the door. Owen took off his shirt and stuffed it underneath.

  “Why did you keep me cooped up in that bookstore for so long?” Owen finally whispered.

  “Obeying orders. I was told to keep your identity from you.”

  “What identity is that?”

  “I was told you were special and that someone would come looking for you. If I fulfilled my task until your 18th birthday, I would be reunited with my wife and child. Shortly before you left I discovered you were the Wormling.”

  “And you believed that? Was it the Dragon who talked you into this?”

  “One of his henchmen told me I could obey or die, simple as that.”

  “You failed,” Owen said. “Why haven’t you been killed?”

  “All in good time, my friend. Perhaps the minions are my punishment.”

  Owen put his head back and leaned against the door. “How could you be the husband of Drushka without her recognizing your picture?”

  Mr. Reeder took a deep breath. “This is how it was explained to me.” He pointed to his palm. “This side of your hand is what you use to grasp things—a pencil, a book, pages. It is vital to dexterity.” He turned his hand over. “This side merely mirrors the movements of the other side. But the two are not two at all but one.”

  “I understand, but what does that have to do with—?”

  “Probably something in the book explains it.”

  “Many parts of the book I don’t understand, but I don’t remember anything that talks of hands and—”

  “Not hands but worlds. Doesn’t it say anything about the two worlds being united?”

  Owen gasped. “Of course! The book says when the Son returns he will defeat the Dragon and unite the two worlds with his marriage.”

  “There you are.”

  “But that doesn’t explain how you could be here and in the Lowlands and have a wife who doesn’t even recognize your picture.”

  Mr. Reeder sighed heavily. Then he stood and looked out the window. “I think they’re gone,” he said, handing Owen his shirt. “Let’s get your sword.”

  When Owen opened the door, the buzzing sounded muffled behind him. He raced to the front of the station, Mr. Reeder close at his heels, to the desk of the officer who had taken his sword. It wasn’t there, but he found a key ring with a tiny key that removed Mr. Reeder’s handcuffs.

  “They’re coming,” Mr. Reeder hissed. “The minions know you’re here.”

  “Help me find the sword,” Owen said, fear creeping into his voice.

  Owen tore through the halls, looking under desks and through windows into locked offices.

  Mr. Reeder gave a halfhearted effort, more interested, it seemed, in finding a place to hide.

  Toward the rear of the front section was an office with Evidence Room over the door. The window and door were covered with wire mesh, but Owen could see the sword atop the long counter inside. The door was, of course, locked.

  Buzzing and clicking raised the hair on Owen’s neck. Mr. Reeder said something, but Owen paid no attention. He flew back for the key ring and tried every key as fast as he could.

  “We’ve got to go!” Mr. Reeder said.

  Finally one worked, and Owen was in.

  “No!” Mr. Reeder shouted, backing into a corner. “Stay away from me!”

  Owen grabbed the sword, instantly feeling power surge through him. He returned to where Mr. Reeder waved at one of the beasts.

  “Leave him alone!” Owen yelled.

  The minion turned and locked eyes with Owen, then threw back its head and gave an otherworldly screech that seemed to summon all its friends.

  “What are you doing here, Wormling?” the high-pitched voice said. “Why have you come to torment us?”

  So the sword allowed him to understand the buzzing language!

  “To send you back where you’ve come from,” Owen said. “Le
ave here or die.”

  “We have work to do,” the minion growled. “We search for the girl at the Dragon’s behest.”

  A fire raged in Owen’s chest, and he lunged at the creature with such force and speed that it was sliced in two, its halves quivering on the floor, wings flapping pathetically.

  “Were you stung?” Owen said.

  Mr. Reeder shook his head. “You have become strong.”

  Owen helped him up, but as they reached the door a swarm of beasts hit the glass, screaming, “Get the Wormling!”

  A screeching voice, lower than the others, bellowed over the noise, “We’ve found the girl! Follow me!”

  Most of the swarm left, following the larger minion that appeared to be wearing armor.

  Owen’s mind raced. What girl? And where?

  Owen sprinted to the door. “Are you coming?”

  “Out there?” Mr. Reeder said. “You have to be crazy.”

  “It’s our only chance.”

  The man pulled his knees to his chest and rocked like a child. “I can’t.”

  Owen plunged out the door, the minions clanging off his sword with each swing. He was sure a few minions got through before the door shut, because of Mr. Reeder’s screams.

  Owen discovered that simply holding the sword in front of him as he ran both attracted and warded off his attackers. They flew headlong into it—as metal is drawn toward a magnet.

  He caught the swarm of minions and their commander two blocks ahead after he ran through an alley and crossed a parking lot. The leader was so large it could fly only a few feet off the ground, and the others swarmed around it.

  The farther Owen ran, the more familiar the streets looked. There was the grocery and the library and a row of houses that stood like sentinels. The streets were deserted, and Owen noticed a child in a second-floor window watching with astonishment before being whisked away by someone.

  He stayed about a half block behind the swarm, many minions still clanking off his sword. Clouds covered the sky, and a dark patch against the mountains lit with lightning. Owen ran on, remembering from The Book of the King: