The Minions of Time (12 page)

As Owen and the others trudged through the deep snow toward Yodom, something seemed strange. The path had widened. Tree stumps and rocks had been moved so the transport flyers were able to walk, rather than having to lift themselves over the path with their powerful wings.

As they neared the place that overlooked the town, instead of finding the rock pile the people had used to vanquish the vaxors, there stood small huts and lean-tos. The village had expanded.

“Halt!” A man shrouded in snow held a glowing torch and moved toward them quickly.

Connor drew a weapon he had taken from a guard at the mine.

“Put that away,” Owen said.

The man's eyes widened as he took in the size of the crowd before him, especially when one of the transport flyers lifted a wing.

“Sound the alarm!” the man yelled.

“Wait!” Owen said. “We come in peace—”

But it was too late. A ram's horn blew, and the man disappeared into the snowy darkness. Another ram's horn sounded farther away, then another that seemed to echo deep inside the mountain.

“They will kill us,” Connor said, again unsheathing his weapon.

“Not when they find out who we are,” Owen said, but he turned to face archers with flaming arrows through the haze. A phalanx of warriors with shields knelt before them.

“People of Yodom!” Owen shouted. “This is not the army of the Dragon before you! We have escaped the Dragon!”

“Stand back!” came an older, shaky voice. “Put down your weapons!” A hooded figure made his way through the snow, glancing up at the transport flyers, then locking eyes with Owen.

“Scribe!” Owen shouted.

“Wormling!” the old man said, and they embraced. “Come and warm yourselves at the fellowship cavern. All of you.”

The Scribe looked quite different from when Owen had first seen him. His eyes were bright and full of life, and he was smartly dressed and busy with the details of lodging the newcomers.

“Send the families into the back. Children without parents can go with Rachel, and those of fighting age can sleep here—after they have eaten and warmed themselves and found new clothing.”

The scene around them was like an old-fashioned homecoming. There was everything but music, and Owen knew Erol and his clan would take care of that when they arrived.

“How did so many get here?” Owen said as the Scribe pulled him aside and set a plate of steaming food before him.

“The news of the escape of the White Mountain prisoners brought many curious people,” the Scribe said, pouring hot cider for him. “Most have stayed with us and become protectors, but as you can see, we are almost filled to overflowing.”

“And your mind?” Owen said. “It seems clear.”

“Never better. My wife can't believe the transformation, and neither can the people of the town. Once a doddering old fool, now I lead this camp as if I were 20. I daresay that friend of yours, Watcher, helped me by remembering so much of
The Book of the King
. When she recited it, I wrote it down, and it has helped me immensely. I should show you my manuscript. . . . Did I say something wrong, Wormling? You look—”

“I just miss my friend. I wish she were here with the book and Mucker.” Owen leaned close and whispered to the old man, “I know this will come as a shock, but we're going to need many more warriors. Even now, my friend Mordecai and the clan of Erol are scouring the countryside for volunteers.”

“Who would not want to come and fight with you?” the Scribe said. “Tell me, has your quest been successful? Did you find the Son?”

Owen smiled. This man had known his father the King intimately. “Listen,” Owen said, but before he could continue, a scuffle broke out between Connor's men and those watching the weapons.

“I'll handle this,” Owen said.

Watcher buried her legs behind Machree's neck and burrowed her face into the swooping bird's soft, warm feathers. The wind whipped at her fur, and she clutched tight
The Book of the King
and hoped Mucker would be all right.

The first few minutes of the flight were the worst, as Machree fought to gain altitude, despite being fat, out of shape, and short of breath.

“Why the White Mountain?” Machree screeched.

“Our friends are there,” Watcher said. “How far away are we?”

“Through the night and on into morning,” Machree said, breathless and obviously concerned.

“Have you not ventured from the forest since what happened with the council?”

Machree took a long time to answer. “If you were hated by the Dragon and those who follow the King, would you go out? Truth is, I fear both. If the demon flyers catch me, it's over. And I can't bear seeing any of the council, knowing that I . . .”

“What?” Watcher said. “What did you do?”

“Don't make me retell history. Keep your eyes peeled, and alert me to any danger.”

Darkness covered the land, but lights twinkled above. The Wormling had explained that some in his world believed the stars were the result of a great explosion. When he told her how many believed things far from what
The Book of the King
taught, she despaired. How glad she would be when they found the King's Son and would be able to attend the wedding. She hoped the Wormling had found the Son, but if he had, that meant he would be traveling back to his world. Would she ever see him again? Would the Son's uniting of the two worlds keep them friends or separate them forever?

A screech pierced the stillness, and Watcher looked up in time to see clouds dispersing. With a sickening thud, something hit Machree from behind, and feathers flew everywhere. She held on desperately as they plunged, hurtling out of control.

Watcher suddenly realized that she was holding Machree so tight with her legs that she had cut off his air. She let up and shouted, “Spread your wings! We're going to crash!”

The wind screamed in her ears as she peered at something on the ground—the reflection of the moon in water. It grew larger as they fell.

Owen awoke to a gorgeous blue sky and a new fluffy, white coating on the ground. The air was crisp, and tree boughs were weighted down with the white stuff.

Owen had separated Connor and the other young men who had quarreled over who would lead the group in battle. “I need your passion and your will,” Owen had said, “but I also need you to understand who the enemy is.”

Connor had torn away and retreated to Dreyanna. The Scribe wanted Owen to return to their conversation, but Owen told him they would talk again in the morning.

With the sun glaring off the snow and making him shade his eyes, Owen checked on the transport flyers. They shook off the snow from their backs, and one of them burped.

“So, you're happy to see me?” Owen said, laughing.

The animals swung their tails and shook so much snow onto Owen that he had to shield himself with his hands. “All right, all right, I'm glad to see you as well. I just hope your boss doesn't see you and send a horde of demon flyers.”

As if they understood, the flyers hunkered down in the snow and dipped their heads.

“You have a way with animals,” the Scribe said, startling Owen.

He patted one of the flyers on the head. “I just treat them better than the Dragon's guards ever did. A little kindness goes a long way.”

“You are a strong leader,” the Scribe continued, “able to reason with men. And there is a certain look in you that makes me wonder—”

“You should not jump to conclusions,” Owen said.

“I've regained more than just my faculties,” the Scribe said. “I remember now. And I can see him in you.”

Owen turned. “Please, I don't want the people to know until the time is right. Certain of them have already rejected me once.”

“They simply see you as a threat.”

Owen shook his head. “Not just them. The book says, ‘The King's Son is not welcome in his own land and not recognized. He has nowhere to lay his head.' When the time is right, it will be revealed to them.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I have bad news,” Owen said, gazing at the camp. “You have done much to make this your home. But you have to leave. All of you.”

The Scribe looked horrified. “If I did not believe you were the one, I would call you mad.”

“This mountain will be brought low—I'm hoping sooner rather than later.”

“You hope this?”

“For the good of the people and the good of this land. Don't question me, for I must make a difficult journey and—”

“How can you leave us when the battle is about to commence?”

“I can't say I understand it all either. But this is what my father wishes. If you believe in me and want to help the people, convince them to go down from this mountain and prepare for war. If they stay here, I shudder to think what will happen.”

“When must we go?”

“This morning if possible. Have them gather whatever supplies they can carry. It is the only way to preserve this army and their safety.”

Owen told him Mordecai and Erol and his clan should be coming to meet them soon. He gathered supplies, said good-bye to his new friends, got a hug and a kiss from Rachel, and returned to the transport flyers.

“Gentlemen, we have a Watcher to find,” Owen whispered. “And a Mucker and a book.”

The flyers seemed to jockey for position, each trying to go lower than the other so Owen would choose to ride on its back.

Dreyanna emerged from the cave and threw him some animal skins. “For your journey, Wormling. Return to us whole.”

“Ah, half a Wormling is better than none, right?”

She shook her head. “Return whole.”

“Keep an eye on your husband and that temper of his.”

“That temper makes him who he is.”

Owen nodded. “But a temper under control is more suitable for the army I desire.”

Somewhere birds sang and animals skittered for the last of their food supply before the full force of winter bore down. Somewhere children laughed and played. Somewhere all was well.

But not here.

Here on the wet earth where trees bore barren branches and seemed to pray for sunshine, even the rocks cried out for something dry.

Here on this feather-strewn bog lay two figures, still and broken, appearing lifeless in repose. Onto this bleak scene strutted an animal—not a cute one with a pleasant face that you would want to take home. No, this was a brown and black jargid, its naturally smelly, repulsive fur matted from walking near the bog. Known for eating just about anything dead—fruit, mice, insects—it ambled toward the bodies in the mud.

The jargid's nose twitched as it sniffed the large bird with the curled claws and open eyes, reflecting the pale, cloudy sky. The jargid moved past the broken wing and sneezed as feathers tickled its nose. It shook its head and quickly moved on to the next creature—more bite-size. It had hooves and a body like some fast-running animal of the plains but a pointy face like a rat's. The jargid sniffed the soft underbelly, feeling the warmth inside.
Hmm. Couldn't have been here long
.

The jargid jumped back as something moved under the fur of the smaller beast. A worm! Nestled in a fresh kill?

Licking its lips, the jargid bared its teeth and leaned in for a taste of dead flesh. But the worm raised its head and bared teeth of its own! Tiny though they were, they sank into the jargid's lower lip, making him fall back and lick blood from his mouth. It seemed the little creature was taunting him now, but jargids are not creatures prone to effort, let alone confrontation, so he just shook his head and moved along, sniffing for something that had been dead much longer.

* * *

The worm, however, moved up the fur of the dead-looking muddy animal, past the open lips and the bared teeth, up the soft, furry face, onto one ear, where there was very little hair on pure flesh. Mucker, with tenderness, sank his teeth into the ear.

Suddenly Watcher shook her head so hard that Mucker flew off and plopped into a puddle.

* * *

Watcher stared at the gray clouds tinged with the pink of morning. She was wet and cold and so sore that she didn't even want to move a hoof. She noticed a jargid with a mouse in its mouth. Had the jargid bitten her, thinking she was dead?

She heard gurgling and lifted her head to find Mucker struggling in a small puddle. It wasn't deep, but water was the worm's worst enemy. She tried to stand, but pain shot down her back, and her yelp echoed over the bog. She stretched far enough to nose Mucker out of the puddle, then collapsed, every muscle and bone aching.

Mucker crawled onto Watcher's back and burrowed into her matted fur and made Watcher feel warm all over. To know she had a friend in this grim place gave her hope.

The big bird lay nearby, its left wing at a weird angle.

“Machree?” Watcher struggled to her feet, groaning and shaking, the pain almost too much to bear.

Machree's eyes were glazed over, and Watcher slumped, recalling the screech of the demon flyer and the sickening crack of bones in the bird's back. She hung her head, remembering the falling, falling, falling and the wind in her ears. She did not remember impact, though it was clear the bird had taken the brunt of it.

“You misled me,” a voice rasped.

“You're alive, Machree! Are you all right?”

“You told me you could sense invisibles,” he said.

Watcher hung her head. “I always could before.”

“Before what?”

“Watchers must pledge to always be truthful. Otherwise, we lose our power.”

“And you were not truthful with me?”

“When I told you I trusted you more than Rotag and Tusin, I lied.”

The bird tried to get up but mostly just flopped. Watcher tried to help, but she was too small.

“My wing is broken. I'll never fly again.”

“Don't say that,” Watcher said. “In time you will heal.”

Machree gazed at the sky as a screech filled the air. “We will soon be demon flyer meat.”