“Do what you want with me,” Watcher said. “I will never betray him.”
“Well, frankly, I’ve heard that before.” RHM moved to a desk and uncovered several glistening steel instruments of torture. He waved a sharp one before her face. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind when I—”
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was tall with a thin mustache and wavy, brown and gray hair. “I told you I didn’t want my home turned into a war zone. Why is this creature here?”
“Are you the owner of this castle?” Watcher said.
“Silence!” RHM said.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, and—”
“I said silence!” RHM said, raising an instrument of torture.
At the sight of the weapon, Watcher slumped as if lifeless, though she was only faking.
“She is a spy,” RHM said. “An accomplice of the Wormling.”
Watcher could tell the man was upset. “The Wormling? Here?”
“Just in time for your meeting with His Majesty. The Changeling should have him soon, and if not, I’ll use her to lure him.”
A chill wind blew through the window, and the man walked toward it. “The sky is darkening.”
“His Majesty approaches.”
Getting help from a messenger like Nicodemus is simply not fair. It violates the rules,” the Changeling said.
“And what rules are those?” Owen said, struggling with the rope.
“Why, the . . . uh . . . the fair and balanced rules of the land, which I have always abided by in my quests to, ah—”
“Right, by deceiving everyone you come in contact with.”
“Well—”
“Quiet,” Owen said as he finished hog-tying the croc. “Watcher was right. I should have taken care of you when I had the chance. Where’s my sword?”
The Changeling opened his mouth. “It’s down here—just reach in and . . .” He opened wide.
Owen shook his head and dragged the Changeling into the cave. He whimpered and pleaded for his life, and when he turned his head, Owen brought a rock down and the Changeling’s mouth opened, exposing his gullet. There was no sign of the sword. He was almost ready to dig into the beast’s throat when the Changeling stirred.
“You won’t find them down there,” he said, retching and coughing. “I’ve already turned your precious things over to my superior. The Dragon has them by now.”
Owen grabbed the beast and dragged him toward the rock wall. “Nicodemus, if you’re still here, it would be nice if—”
The hole opened in the wall, and Owen threw the Changeling inside. Just as quickly, the wall closed. Owen heard the muffled moaning and whining as he set off again for the castle.
The Castle on the Moor lay deep in the middle of swamplike land even wetter than what Owen had slogged through. The Dragon’s very presence clouded the entire valley in a deep fog, even during the day. Sentries studied the skies as leaves swayed where no breeze blew. Demon flyers.
Everywhere lurked someone from the Dragon’s guard. Owen crept among the trees, splashing through the water, espying even more watching eyes. He couldn’t imagine getting to the castle unnoticed.
But a long ditch angled away from the castle into the forest, its steep banks corralling shallow running water bearing dead leaves and undergrowth. Owen covered himself with wet leaves and plunged in.
Immediately he was surrounded by fast-slithering snakes with diamond-shaped heads. Owen had to remind himself that they were more afraid of him than he was of them, and sure enough, they moved away as he inched along. When he spotted a guard, he stopped, hoping his leaf-splattered clothing camouflaged him. The guard turned, and Owen continued crawling through the muck, finally making it near the barn. He scrambled up the steep bank, slipping and wriggling over the edge like a worm, then crawled on his stomach to the barnyard.
Covered with mud, wet, and cold, Owen desperately scanned the area for Watcher and Humphrey. Dust and hay arose near the barn, and Owen pressed himself flat against the structure. When he was sure no one was watching, he crept to a creaking door and sneaked in. Nearby guards talked and laughed or he surely would have been heard.
A whip cracked, and a man stood before the guards at the back of the barn, hands out to protect the animals. He wore a floppy hat and a coarse shirt and pants covered with dirt, manure, and straw. “Please don’t hurt them,” he squealed.
“Out of the way!” a guard yelled. He flicked his whip, but the man caught it and pulled, sending the guard flying. The man was clearly powerful, but just as Owen was about to jump from his hiding place to help, a second guard attacked the man with a board to the head. The rest dragged his body to the stall beside Owen.
When the guards returned to the animals, Humphrey stood at the front, back straight, head high.
“Ho, get back there!” the guard yelled, whipping him.
Humphrey reared and took the whiplash under his front, showing his teeth and whinnying. Owen knew he could overpower the guard, but he couldn’t take the chance of having him cry out. The guard lashed Humphrey again, and Owen was about to burst.
Another guard joined the first and began separating the work animals from those that would be eaten. From the shrieks of these innocents, Owen could tell what was happening.
Owen rolled into Humphrey’s pen, and the horse shielded him from being seen. “Sorry, old friend,” Owen whispered. “It’s my fault you’re here.”
Humphrey shuddered flies away and swished his tail in Owen’s face.
“Where have they taken Watcher?”
Humphrey dragged a hoof and made an arrow pointing toward the castle.
“What’s the best way in? Guards are posted at every entrance, and archers stand at the parapets.”
Humphrey looked up and swung his head from side to side.
“Flyers? I should have known.” He covered his face. “There’s no way in without being seen.”
Another animal cried, and Owen peeked between the wooden slats. Wind carried in the fresh, coppery smell of blood. Both guards were covered in red.
“Enough for the feast?” one said.
“We’ve killed everything from this yard except the caretaker and that horse inside.”
“He would be too tough.”
“So would the caretaker.” And they laughed.
Owen’s mind spun, frantic for an idea, one of those wonderful, beautiful ones that would not only get him into the castle but would also bring him face-to-face with his archenemy.
The castle staff, along with the king of the west and his queen, stood on either side of the meeting hall, ready to receive their guests. Repugnance lined the face of the cook, a large man with a balding, lumpy head, but the others stood with faces cast toward the floor, ready to bow to the Dragon’s every whim.
The queen fanned herself despite the chilly house. Tiny girls dressed as maids shivered and rubbed their arms. Grown men looked like little boys about to be paddled.
A pack of vaxors sauntered in, waving their swords and axes close to the workers. The blades were caked with the blood of some innocent town that had been laid waste. This group made the women recoil, as if they smelled raw sewage.
One vaxor, tall and hairy with red eyes and wearing an animal skin, stuck his chest out like a victorious warrior, but he was not. Daagn had led the failed attack on Yodom and burned to see Watcher suffer. He would make her pay.
As he passed the king, he held his ax at just the right angle to brush the man’s cheek. The king recoiled, slapping a hand over the wound. The queen offered a handkerchief.
Daagn sneered, and the king held the handkerchief low, clearly embarrassed. He pushed his wife aside.
Daagn, of course, had not told the Dragon the truth when he had returned from defeat. He had conveyed disdain for troops that had defected or refused to kill innocents. Daagn himself had killed a score of his own. That was his story.
Deep in his heart, where there lay nothing but a desire to kill and de
stroy, Daagn longed to make up for his failure. He promised himself he would not rest until the Watcher had paid and given up the Wormling.
“All rise for the trusted aide-de-camp,” RHM said, “the right hand of the ruler, who goes before the sovereign. Presenting Reginald Handler Mephistopheles!” He proceeded through the line with a wave.
No one so much as looked at him, let alone clapped.
At the end of the procession in front of the vaxors, RHM raised his head and his voice. He recited a long list of accomplishments of the Dragon, battles won, enemies destroyed, and ended, “. . . and soon to be recognized throughout this world and the other as the true king and sovereign over all, the Magnificent One who comes in peace though he could devour all, who comes to speak of treaties signed long ago, ever faithful and wise, all-knowing, His Honor, the Majestic Dragon!”
The vaxors banged their axes on the floor and gave a battle cry as the Dragon, with an impish grin, soaked in the adoration—though it came from only one end of the room. The people at the entrance simply bowed as he passed, some pinching their noses and clearly trying not to gag.
By the time the Dragon reached the end of the line, his tail had just cleared the door. He turned and smiled. “With great pleasure I again visit the esteemed Castle on the Moor. We have business, but now is a time for feasting!”
The vaxors screamed.
“Set the food before me as an offering.”
The cook looked right and left, then stepped out. “But we have been held in a room, unable to prepare food.”
“I understand the need for security. Come, come, bring the food!”
Two guards in blood-spattered garments dragged the carcasses of the animals they had killed and tossed them on the table behind the king.
“But this has not been cooked!” the cook said.
The Dragon signaled the crowd to move out of the way, took a deep breath, and blew fire over the meat so hot that the table caught fire, along with the draperies and pictures on the wall.
“There,” the Dragon said. “Dinner is served.”
The vaxors descended like wolves, tearing at the meat and chopping it with their weapons.
We are trying to tell this story as Owen would like to read it, stripped of things that might slow the reader. However, the treaty room plays an important role in what is to occur.
In the middle of the large, circular chamber sat a massive, wooden table surrounded by fat, sturdy chairs. Four tall windows ran from floor to ceiling, draped with thick curtains, velvety and heavy. At one end of the room stood a full suit of armor. At the other was an empty bookshelf.
On the walls hung portraits of the king of the west and his queen and a map of the western kingdom. There was also a rendering of the queen with a child in her arms, a girl with a cherubic smile, stubby teeth showing.
The queen took the seat beside her husband, glanced at the painting, and quickly averted her eyes.
RHM and the Dragon stood back from the table, the chairs unable to support the Dragon’s girth and RHM not wishing to anger his boss by sitting. Daagn the vaxor pulled out an end chair and sat with his filthy feet on the table.
The Dragon smiled at the king and queen and folded his hands. “Nice of you to open your home. I like what you’ve done with the place and what has not been done to it, like that other castle we know.”
“How is our daughter?” the queen said. “And where is she?”
The Dragon nodded to RHM, who unrolled a scroll on the table, the signature of the king of the west prominent at the bottom. “As stipulated, she remains unharmed, though hidden.”
“We have heard rumors of a Wormling,” the queen said, brow furrowed.
“Do not be alarmed,” the Dragon said. “He is being dealt with and will not be able to reach your daughter.”
The king squinted, and the Dragon turned on him. “You wonder why the presence of a Wormling would be bad? He would endanger both your daughter and your estate. This Wormling seeks the Son so that the Son and your daughter might wed. Imagine the chaos. I would have to terminate my agreement with you and, in turn, terminate your daughter.”
The queen gasped. “You mustn’t.”
“Not what I want to do in the least, madam,” the Dragon said. “I have your daughter’s best interests at heart. However, it is the good of the people that I most care for. The Wormling, if he is not stopped, will make the rabble believe all sorts of nonsense—that they can rule themselves, that they are kings and queens with more power than they can imagine. Such cruel lies give commoners undue hope. Many would needlessly die before they realize how wrong the Wormling is.”
“He must be stopped,” the queen said.
“All that evil needs to flourish is for good people to do nothing,” the Dragon said, his head low. “Do all you can to encourage the people to bring him to me so that I might protect your daughter.”
“Yes,” the queen said. “Exactly.”
The king of the west finally leaned forward. “We have done everything required in the treaty. We have not searched for our daughter. We have not hindered you in any way. We have not contacted the other ruler of the Lowlands. We have met your every demand.”
“Yes,” the Dragon cooed. “And for that I am grateful.”
The king’s eyes waxed steely. “But my patience is running thin. Your own treaty states that you will return Onora when the threat to your kingdom has passed.” His eyes filled, his lips quivered, and he ran his hands across the table. He looked more like a wounded father than a king.
“Where are my manners?” the king said, dripping with sarcasm. “I should be falling at your feet, begging to wipe the dust off your talons.”
A low rumble sounded in the throat of the Dragon.
The king stood. “I should be thanking you for taking our daughter, for depriving us of the opportunity to pour our lives into hers, to instill in her our values.”
“He’s not thinking clearly,” the queen said. “Forgive him.”
“But then what values do we have left?” the king said. “We who would not even fight for our own flesh and blood. We who would not even stand up to someone who promises us freedom.”
“I have given you freedom.”
“You have given us slavery! We remain locked here awaiting the release of a baby who in the meantime has become almost a grown woman. We trusted you!”
“This is the first I have seen of your feisty side,” the Dragon growled. “For the record, I hate it.”
Daagn stood, ax at the ready. “I will cut down the one who dares insult the sovereign!”
The Dragon rolled his eyes. “Be seated.” He looked at the king. “And you as well.”
But the king leaned over the table, setting both hands atop it. “Can you possibly understand what it is like to have the thing you care about most in the world taken from you?”
The Dragon spoke soothingly. “I can identify more than you know. You will have your precious daughter back soon. You must realize that I’ve kept her for her own safety and yours.”
The king ran a hand through his gray-flecked hair. “Sure, always for her own good, for our own good. As if we should trust you.”
The Dragon rolled onto his feet, a thin line of black smoke escaping his lips. “Your insolence betrays your true feelings. You have pushed me too far.” With a snort and a rattle, the Dragon took a breath.
The king moved to a window, clearly unafraid but apparently not wanting his wife harmed when he was incinerated. He opened his arms and with a defiant look said, “Go ahead.”
An old man walked into the room with a live sheep over his shoulders. No one saw the lilt in the man’s step or the strength in his arms, which betrayed a much younger man. The Dragon turned and snarled, but the old man kept his head down, seeming to not notice the import of the meeting.
“Matthew,” the king said, “the feast is downstairs. Take the animal there.”
“Oh, downstairs,” the man said. “Silly me.” He set
the sheep on the floor. It took one look at the Dragon and scurried from the room. The man moved toward a window behind the Dragon.
“Get out or I’ll fry you alive!” the Dragon roared.
“Matthew,” the king said, “we’re in a meeting here. I need you to go downstairs.”
The man darted behind the curtains. The Dragon took another deep breath, but before he released it, the man jumped from behind the curtain.
“You wouldn’t want to hurt your precious Wormling, would you?”
Daagn shot to his feet, his ax in both hands. “You!”
The Dragon swallowed his fire and covered the vaxor with his tail. “Careful, Daagn. Looks can be deceiving. This is the Changeling I told you about.”
“Changeling? It’s the Wormling!” He raised his ax, but the Wormling paid him no mind.
“Lower your weapon,” the Dragon said.
“But he looks and sounds and even smells just like the Wormling.”
“Yes,” the Wormling said. “Isn’t that the point?” He checked his fingernails and looked about the room. “Much better than that dreary Castle of the Pines. The draperies are a nice touch.”
“This is the Wormling?” the queen said, fear in her voice.
“The likeness is startling, eh, Your Queenness?” the Wormling said. “Nothing to be alarmed about. Although I present an exact representation. A clear and convincing voice as well, don’t you think, Dr. Flamecough?”
The Dragon had quickly moved from anger to amusement. “He can change into any life-form. Go ahead and show them.”
“Yes,” Daagn said. “Show us.”
“I’m not here for a show. I’m here to report good news.”
“Yes?” the Dragon said, sitting up on his haunches.
“The Wormling is dead. Sealed in stone, never to be heard from again, unless you care to slog through that marsh out there.”
The Changeling Page 14