“Where will you be?”
“Looking for my father. Our father.”
* * *
Wielding his sword, Owen ran into the wind, searching the sky for the minions of time. Had they been blown away by the wind?
Darkness gathered thicker than Owen could remember. He ran, searching for any sign of his father, passing the street where the bookstore’s sign had fallen at a weird angle and dangled over the sidewalk.
A pack of minions flew overhead, their voices blown about on the wind. Owen strained to hear one exclaim, “He threatens our nest! Converge on him in the power of the Dragon!”
The nest. Under the B and B.
He ran with new purpose and a strength he could not explain. He felt the very picture of the verse in The Book of the King:
The King gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even young people grow tired, slip, and fall, but any who put their trust in the King will find new power. They will fly on winged creatures. They will move through the night and not be tired. They will not grow faint, though the task ahead is arduous.
Owen passed the elementary school and neared the burned-out shell of the B and B. A streetlight flickered, and he caught sight of some creature on the side of the blackened building. The end of his sword cast a glow, and he saw it was Mr. Page—the King—his father, scaling the structure.
In a moment Owen would never forget, the man smiled at him, but stubborn and unwavering, he kept climbing until he reached the peak of the only spire left standing. Owen could only look on helplessly, spellbound.
An awful sound behind him made Owen turn to see a group of flying minions, a long mass of gnashing, screeching beasts. Atop the spire, Owen’s father opened his coat and tore off his shirt, exposing his chest.
“No!” Owen screamed, throwing his sword as high as he could, but it fell short of the throng of minions.
As the sword descended, the minions screeched and taunted and flew into Owen’s father’s chest. He wrapped his coat around them as if gathering a stack of unwanted books.
The sword stuck in the earth beside Owen.
His father closed his eyes and fell backward.
Splintering wood was followed by a deep, crushing explosion. Smoke rose from the B and B.
“Oh, Father!”
Batwing flew as fast as his wings would carry him. With everything in him he had flown higher than ever—all the way to the Dragon’s lair. He saw the Dragon fume and foam and call down curses upon the land. And when the army of the Dragon had moved, so had Batwing. He feared he would be too late to warn Watcher and the others.
Compared to the Dragon’s army, the army of the Wormling was small. Batwing knew from talking with the King long before he had even met the Wormling that strength and victory do not come from numbers. But in this case the masses formed against them were simply too overwhelming, and Batwing plunged back to the Lowlands at breakneck speed.
He came near what was left of the White Mountain. Smoke still billowed from it, but there was more smoke in the valley near the forest of Emul. Trees burned, and fields were littered with small, lifeless objects.
Batwing extended his wings, trying desperately to stop, but he crashed into what he thought was a tree stump, only to come to his senses and realize it was one of the clan of Erol.
He fell back, trying to catch his breath, and bumped into another body. Connor stared through lifeless eyes! All around him lay bodies. The land was strewn with the dead. Mordecai lay by a tree, as did Burden.
Batwing stumbled from one body to the next, searching for any sign of the living. When he moved past a large rock and saw four still hooves, he broke down.
“Watcher, I’m sorry!” he sobbed. “I tried to get here to warn you.”
He cradled her head in his lap and stared into the distance where the armies of the Dragon retreated. The sorrow nearly broke him.
If only the Wormling were here. If only his sword could touch these friends. If only . . .
Owen grabbed his sword and picked his way through the rubble until he stood over a hole deep in the earth. It had shot straight through the elevator shaft, leaving the space perfectly clean.
He had hoped to find his father and use his sword to heal him. But his father had chosen to take the minions down with him, sacrificing his scarred body.
Owen knelt as sirens blared in the distance. The wind was calm now. A light shone on the horizon as clouds parted.
Owen feared his heart would break, and perhaps it would have had he not heard a whisper. It was the voice he had heard long ago while running from Gordan, the voice he had heard on the mountain. The voice of his friend Nicodemus.
“Remember this, Owen Reeder. You bear the Sword of the Wormling. You are the true Son of the King, the keeper of the sacred book. And the author’s blood flows through your veins.”
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 now serves on Moody’s board of trustees.
His writing has appeared in publications as varied as Time magazine, 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 the RPM series and 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.
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