The Changeling (12 page)

Yodom was no unsuspecting village to the vaxor attack. The Wormling had come. The Wormling had warned them.

To Owen, the vaxors looked like animals, their fur pulled tightly across their backs, creeping up on some small, helpless creatures. Except the small, helpless creatures had been herded into the cave near the Scribe's home.

The vaxor leader crept directly past Owen's hidden spot as he led his troops north of the village. When he signaled his men, they grunted and salivated. At the same time, those below the village began their assault on the homes.

When the vaxors ripped off doors and rushed inside, instead of cries and screams of frightened families, there came grunts and groans, coughing and sputtering from the marauders, and the splash of some liquid.

“Sir, there's no one here!”

“Same here, sir. Nothing inside except for this—” he coughed harshly—“liquid perched above the door.”

A strong odor wafted over the village and carried up the hillside. The vaxors congregated in the middle of town, some wiping the smelly liquid from their faces, others staying upwind from them.

Suddenly Owen rose and called, “Sword!”

An orange glow shot from the fire and flew a few feet above the horde, spewing sparks on them. Those who had been doused with the liquid burst into flames and ran screaming through the camp. About a third of the army was on fire, with others racing away to keep from being burned.

Owen caught the sizzling sword with a hand wrapped in a jargid skin and stood at the top of the hill.

The vaxor leader whooped a war cry, and those not burning or running away started up the hill.

“You set a trap, Wormling!” the leader shouted. “But you have walked into ours.”

The vaxors brandished their weapons and strained to get at Owen. But just as they drew within striking distance, he stepped back, raised his sword, and brought it down on a strand of rope tightly fastened to a log. The snap of the severed rope triggered a landslide of logs that barreled down the hill, followed by a cascade of rocks the children had gathered.

The vaxors turned and raced back down the hill, but they were no match for the logs and rocks that flooded over them. Other than a few lucky stragglers who had escaped the edges of the avalanche, only the vaxor commander remained upright. He had deftly danced to his right when the onslaught began. Now he raised his ax and charged up the hill.

On cue, the villagers—children bearing rocks, parents carrying pitchforks and spears—rose up as one from behind Owen and rushed the vaxor.

As if staring down a tidal wave, the commander slid to a stop and lowered his ax, then raised it quickly to block rocks and projectiles. He snarled and roared at the crowd.

When the volley subsided, he looked around. His troops lay dead or dying. His eyes blazed. “You will pay for this, Wormling!” He scampered down the ridge, over logs and boulders and dead comrades, disappearing into the golden horizon.

* * *

The villagers pulled bodies from the rubble and buried them—a grim task for even the strong of stomach. They found some vaxors alive, and Owen used his sword to try and heal them, but it did not work. He ordered the villagers to release the injured.

“Why don't we kill them?” Sideburns said. “If we let them go, we'll just have to fight them another time.”

“
The Book of the King
instructs, ‘Heap loads of kindness on your enemy so that in the end his heart might be changed.' ”

“Surely you don't think these vaxors will ever serve the King.”

Owen smiled. “The only vaxors without hope are those we buried. As long as there is breath, and as long as the King is in charge, everyone has hope. They're loyal to the Dragon because they believe they have no choice. The King's love will constrain them.”

Sideburns stroked his chin and mumbled, “We heard rumors of a Changeling. A stark-raving madman regains his mind. Vaxors attack innocents. And you help us defeat a foe who would have easily wiped out the village. You
are
the Wormling.”

“I am here to follow the King's orders. And my task is to find his Son so that all who wish to be free shall be.”

Sideburns knelt before Owen, but Owen reached for him. “Do not bow to me; bow only to the King or his Son.”

When all the villagers had gathered, Owen told them he was leaving. The very ones who had called him a spy and traitor now protested.

“The King's mission motivates me,” Owen said. “But I will return. I'm leaving Watcher and Humphrey to protect you. I can't promise more vaxors won't return, but I can tell you that they will never forget the village of Yodom.”

It had been Watcher who suggested they use the fiery liquid from the cave, ignited by the Wormling's sword heated in the fire. She had observed the children playing with rocks and, with Humphrey's help, moved the logs into position.

Still, Watcher seemed glum as Owen led her to the home of the Scribe. When he told the man his intentions, the Scribe clawed through his old clothes and gave Owen a pair of shoes with sharpened spikes, along with a heavy coat and pants.

“These were my son's. I would be honored if you would wear them on your journey.”

“I've prepared food and water for your climb,” Rachel said. “Remember to drink plenty. The altitude will sap your strength.”

Owen climbed down and bade farewell to Humphrey, and the horse nuzzled his shoulder.

Watcher had moved a few yards away and stood alone on the path. “I don't like that you're going alone,” she whispered. “I hate saying good-bye.”

“We're not saying good-bye.” Owen reached inside his shirt pocket. “I want you to look after someone for me.”

Mucker smiled through shattered teeth and rested on Watcher's back.

“I'm afraid it's too cold up there for him.”

“I'll guard him with my life.”

* * *

Watcher sadly walked the Wormling to the edge of the snow pack, several hundred feet above the village, where a long stretch of ice lay before him. She looked up at the mountain and its twisting, blinding whiteness. Fog enshrouded the top.

“Be aware of a gust of hot air,” Watcher said. “The demon flyers make slight squeaks. You can hide in the snow. And if it's a scythe flyer—”

The Wormling held up a hand. “I'll be fine.”

Watcher stayed until the Wormling became a dot on the horizon, wiping a tear from her face.

Owen sank deep in the snow in places, his boots cracking ice in others. The first day he navigated the icefall—a long, shifting glacier valley—and by evening was exhausted. No way could he travel after dark, for the path, where there was one, proved narrow and treacherous.

He found a small indentation in the mountain and cut blocks of snow with his sword to fashion an igloo to block the wind. He carried no tent, but he had a supply of jargid skins to put beneath and over him.

As darkness descended, he settled in, eating some of the food Rachel had prepared. He drank water and refilled his carrier with snow so it would melt, then burrowed deep in the jargid skins.

As Owen drifted off, flashes of his life passed before his mind: his teacher Mrs. Rothem, the bookstore, his friend Constance. . . .

Owen sat up. Watcher had always reminded him of someone, and now it dawned on him. Constance. Her constant talking and analyzing and questioning. Even their voices sounded alike. He would have to tell Watcher when he returned.

If
he returned.

Curled up here, his feet like blocks of ice, he wondered if he could accomplish this task. Just getting to the top of the mountain would be a first. And how would he elude the neodim?

Part of him couldn't wait to see one. Another part never wanted to see another malformed beast concocted by the Dragon.

A frigid wind invaded, and Owen buried his head beneath the skins, grateful that the curing process eliminated the horrible jargid odor. Again, as he drifted, his thoughts became a jumble of memories, finally alighting on a passage from
The Book of the King
.

When I rise in the morning and go to sleep at night, I will think of you, O King. For you are great and powerful and majestic and full of splendor. The entire kingdom is yours. Truly you are lifted high above everything.

Watcher stationed sentries on the outskirts of the village and made sure they had ram's horns to warn of an attack. She stared at the mountain, wondering how far the Wormling had climbed.

The day he left, a stiff wind had blown from the mountain, signaling the end of warm weather. All Watcher could think was,
If it's this cold down here, how cold is it up there?

She played a rock game with the children, helping replace rocks that had plunged down the hillside. She let the flock shearer trim her face fur but, with winter coming, not any from her body.

Watcher also spent time at the Scribe's home—pacing at the base of the tree, listening to the laughter and soft voices above. When the Scribe spotted her, he insisted she make her way up on a contraption he had devised.

Moments later Watcher scanned the room, realizing that Rachel must have tidied up. The Wormling had described it as a mess.

The Scribe and Rachel asked Watcher question after question, going on about her life in the Valley of Shoam, her family, the attack of Dreadwart, and her travels with the Wormling. Rachel made dinner, and they talked long into the night. Watcher often found her mind drifting to the Wormling, wondering where he was on the mountain, whether he was warm, and if any demon flyers had passed.

Mucker slept deep in the fur on her back. She would leave him in the Scribe's home when she went outside so he could enjoy the warmth of the fire.

Suddenly the Scribe put a hand to his head and motioned for Rachel. “Another spell. It feels as if the Dragon is near and wants to drag me back to his lair.”

Rachel made him lie down, but the man would not be comforted.

Watcher moved closer. “When your mind is clouded, remember this: ‘Whatever is genuine, whatever is good, whatever is correct and clean, whatever your mind comes to rest on that is beautiful or brilliant—anything that is admirable or commendable—these are the things you should think about.' ”

Like a man who hears beautiful music for the first time, the Scribe brightened and his eyes twinkled. Even Rachel seemed transformed by the words.

“How did you remember such a wonderful passage?” the Scribe said.

“The Wormling often read from
The Book of the King.
Some passages he repeated again and again.”

“So, like the others, you do not read?” he said.

Watcher nodded. “The Wormling . . .” Each time she said his name it stabbed her heart. She missed him terribly and felt she was letting him down by staying behind. “He was teaching me, but it's been some time now. I suppose I'll never learn.”

The Scribe stood and grabbed parchment and a quill. “Now, slowly repeat what you just told me.”

Watcher was fascinated with the writing process. The letters looked different from the ones the Wormling wrote in the sand. These were polished—flowing and curvy—but when she recognized familiar letters, she clapped her front hooves.

Watcher studied carefully as she continued reciting, Mucker burrowing closer to her skin, gaining strength with each word.