The Minions of Time (17 page)

The Dragon paced in his lair, snorting and scratching the underside of his leg. The scar there bothered him now more than ever.

Even with his armies encamped around the castle and fires burning brightly, something gnawed at him. He should have been elated over the death of the Wormling, dancing in his spacious ballroom, spreading a feast to end all feasts. All that was left was to find another way to destroy the worlds.

RHM knocked and entered timidly, head down.

“Bad news?” the Dragon said. “Or did my inspectors discover his bones?”

“Nothing, sire. Not the sword, not the book or remnants thereof, or even charred bones. My guess is that you vaporized the creature.”

“There would have been something of him down there,” the Dragon spat. “And why, with all the fuel in the depths of that cavern, was the entire mountain not leveled? Why didn't the explosion send those gemstones throughout the entire kingdom?”

A commotion in the hallway drew RHM, who then led a demon flyer inside to see the Dragon.

“News from the Highlands, sire,” the flyer said, gasping as if he had just flown all the way from there. “The girl who was being watched has disappeared. We heard from a sentinel that someone was inside the bookstore—where the Wormling had been kept.”

“Inside? Who?”

“We're not sure, but it could have been the girl. Someone disturbed the minions, and some were loosed prematurely.”

“Not all?”

“No, sire. The others are nearly ready.”

The Dragon turned to RHM. “Do you see why I am skeptical?”

“Begging your pardon, sire,” the demon flyer said, “but this was found in the tunnel near the minions' nest.”

The creature handed the Dragon a piece of charred cloth. The Dragon sniffed it and let out a roar. “It can't be him! He is dead!”

RHM and the flyer shrank back, but the Dragon merely walked to the window and gazed out at his troops. “If there must be war, let it begin before they even suspect it. Ready my troops. We will wipe out the enemy's army before it ever assembles.”

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 original 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.”