The Minions of Time (18 page)

Could Owen trust this man? He had lived with him as his son for years. How could Mr. Reeder have kept the truth from him for so long? Maybe because his real son's life depended on it.

Owen ran to the door and peeked out. Everyone had raced to the screams echoing down the hallway.

“They're inside!” a man said. “Hundreds of 'em! Get in an office and shut the door!”

Owen shut the door and looked pleadingly at Mr. Reeder.

“I told you,” the man said. “The minions have been here for days. They're the Dragon's special creation—part bee, part lion, and part venomous snake. They inject venom into humans that makes them age quickly. Enough venom and the human can die. Otherwise a drop can age a person many years.”

“Why would he unleash them here in the Highlands?”

“Who knows the mind of the Dragon or why he does what he does? I despaired of ever getting back to my family, and once you left, I knew my son was doomed.”

“You are from Yuhrmer. You worked for the blacksmith there.”

Mr. Reeder's eyes narrowed. “Why do you think this?”

“Your wife is the baker Drushka. She gave us bread for our journey. But why didn't she recognize your picture?”

“Who is ‘we'?”

“A Watcher was my constant companion in the Lowlands. And a horse.”

“Do you have a weapon?” the man said.

Owen told him of the Sword of the Wormling and that the officers had confiscated it.

“Then it is true. That is your identity.”

Owen nodded. “I won't leave here without it. Now tell me, is your wife the baker?”

“In a way, yes. I would explain, but we are out of time.”

Something hit the window in the door, and the man recoiled. Owen studied the face of the creature, ignoring the horror in favor of his overwhelming curiosity. Its eyes bugged out but looked human. The sharp teeth covered a slithering tongue, and its wings were golden brown and leathery. It had four legs with sharp spines and something that looked like sharpened metal on the end. It growled at Owen and made a squeaking sound that brought other minions to the door.

There was no other exit, so Owen flicked off the light and ordered Mr. Reeder to sit with his back to the door.

“If they don't see or hear us,” Owen whispered, “maybe they'll lose interest.”

The two settled into a long silence, broken only by the beasts trying to burrow under the door. Owen took off his shirt and stuffed it underneath.

“Why did you keep me cooped up in that bookstore for so long?” Owen finally whispered.

“Obeying orders. I was told to keep your identity from you.”

“What identity is that?”

“I was told you were special and that someone would come looking for you. If I fulfilled my task until your 18th birthday, I would be reunited with my wife and child. Shortly before you left I discovered you were the Wormling.”

“And you believed that? Was it the Dragon who talked you into this?”

“One of his henchmen told me I could obey or die, simple as that.”

“You failed,” Owen said. “Why haven't you been killed?”

“All in good time, my friend. Perhaps the minions are my punishment.”

Owen put his head back and leaned against the door. “How could you be the husband of Drushka without her recognizing your picture?”

Mr. Reeder took a deep breath. “This is how it was explained to me.” He pointed to his palm. “This side of your hand is what you use to grasp things—a pencil, a book, pages. It is vital to dexterity.” He turned his hand over. “This side merely mirrors the movements of the other side. But the two are not two at all but one.”

“I understand, but what does that have to do with—?”

“Probably something in the book explains it.”

“Many parts of the book I don't understand, but I don't remember anything that talks of hands and—”

“Not hands but worlds. Doesn't it say anything about the two worlds being united?”

Owen gasped. “Of course! The book says when the Son returns he will defeat the Dragon and unite the two worlds with his marriage.”

“There you are.”

“But that doesn't explain how you could be here and in the Lowlands and have a wife who doesn't even recognize your picture.”

Mr. Reeder sighed heavily. Then he stood and looked out the window. “I think they're gone,” he said, handing Owen his shirt. “Let's get your sword.”

When Owen opened the door, the buzzing sounded muffled behind him. He raced to the front of the station, Mr. Reeder close at his heels, to the desk of the officer who had taken his sword. It wasn't there, but he found a key ring with a tiny key that removed Mr. Reeder's handcuffs.

“They're coming,” Mr. Reeder hissed. “The minions know you're here.”

“Help me find the sword,” Owen said, fear creeping into his voice.

Owen tore through the halls, looking under desks and through windows into locked offices.

Mr. Reeder gave a halfhearted effort, more interested, it seemed, in finding a place to hide.

Toward the rear of the front section was an office with Evidence Room over the door. The window and door were covered with wire mesh, but Owen could see the sword atop the long counter inside. The door was, of course, locked.

Buzzing and clicking raised the hair on Owen's neck. Mr. Reeder said something, but Owen paid no attention. He flew back for the key ring and tried every key as fast as he could.

“We've got to go!” Mr. Reeder said.

Finally one worked, and Owen was in.

“No!” Mr. Reeder shouted, backing into a corner. “Stay away from me!”

Owen grabbed the sword, instantly feeling power surge through him. He returned to where Mr. Reeder waved at one of the beasts.

“Leave him alone!” Owen yelled.

The minion turned and locked eyes with Owen, then threw back its head and gave an otherworldly screech that seemed to summon all its friends.

“What are you doing here, Wormling?” the high-pitched voice said. “Why have you come to torment us?”

So the sword allowed him to understand the buzzing language!

“To send you back where you've come from,” Owen said. “Leave here or die.”

“We have work to do,” the minion growled. “We search for the girl at the Dragon's behest.”

A fire raged in Owen's chest, and he lunged at the creature with such force and speed that it was sliced in two, its halves quivering on the floor, wings flapping pathetically.

“Were you stung?” Owen said.

Mr. Reeder shook his head. “You have become strong.”

Owen helped him up, but as they reached the door a swarm of beasts hit the glass, screaming, “Get the Wormling!”

A screeching voice, lower than the others, bellowed over the noise, “We've found the girl! Follow me!”

Most of the swarm left, following the larger minion that appeared to be wearing armor.

Owen's mind raced.
What girl? And where?

Owen sprinted to the door. “Are you coming?”

“Out there?” Mr. Reeder said. “You have to be crazy.”

“It's our only chance.”

The man pulled his knees to his chest and rocked like a child. “I can't.”

Owen plunged out the door, the minions clanging off his sword with each swing. He was sure a few minions got through before the door shut, because of Mr. Reeder's screams.

Owen discovered that simply holding the sword in front of him as he ran both attracted and warded off his attackers. They flew headlong into it—as metal is drawn toward a magnet.

He caught the swarm of minions and their commander two blocks ahead after he ran through an alley and crossed a parking lot. The leader was so large it could fly only a few feet off the ground, and the others swarmed around it.

The farther Owen ran, the more familiar the streets looked. There was the grocery and the library and a row of houses that stood like sentinels. The streets were deserted, and Owen noticed a child in a second-floor window watching with astonishment before being whisked away by someone.

He stayed about a half block behind the swarm, many minions still clanking off his sword. Clouds covered the sky, and a dark patch against the mountains lit with lightning. Owen ran on, remembering from
The Book of the King
:

Do not toss away your belief in the King; that assurance will be rewarded. Keep going, no matter how difficult the road, so that when you have followed all the King's directions, you will see his words come to pass.

“She's in there!” the minion commander yelled. “Get her.”

Owen turned the corner to see the familiar glow from the front windows of the Briarwood Café. People at tables looked in openmouthed horror at the oncoming horde. One man ran outside, only to be quickly overcome by the minions until he lay motionless on the ground.

Owen dropped to his knees when he saw Clara Secrest at the counter.

The commander saw her too. “That's her! That's the girl!”

Simply a young girl with a good heart and a pretty face to this point in our story and having seen her listen to and counsel Owen the last time he was in the Highlands, we now take a closer look at Clara Secrest. That she carries so many plates on one arm and has made sure each order is correct (no cheese on the spinach salad, no mayonnaise on the chicken sandwich) tells us what a hard worker she is and that she cares about details. Her kindness toward children becomes obvious when she kneels beside a young boy who's struggling through his order. She smiles and looks him straight in the eye.

It appears a normal evening at the restaurant, with the usual number of people there for their senior citizens' discount as well as the raucous high school crowd. Four boys wearing baseball hats low on their foreheads sit in the back and laugh louder than the rest of the room combined, but they don't seem to care.

One watches Clara, and she feels his eyes as she works her tables. She ignores the boys' chuckles and loud references to her, another positive trait of this young girl.

But the mood changes quickly, and customers drop their forks and point at the oncoming swarm of—what? Bees? Too big to be bees. More like small birds with big teeth and piercing eyes. And they look hungry.

When the creatures smack the front windows, Clara drops plates and people jump and run for the back. Screams fill the dining room, which makes the owner rush out.

“What's all the noise?” he yells, glaring at Clara and apparently ready to holler at her for dropping the food.

Clara points a shaky finger at the front window, and the owner is suddenly speechless. He moves out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron and squinting. “What in the world are those things?”

When the big one squeals in some incomprehensible language, the owner takes a step back. His look is the same as if someone had pulled a dead rat from one of his dinners. He walks to the windows and pulls the blinds. But the beasts keep ramming the windows, screaming and gnashing their teeth.

“What do they want?” an older woman shouts.

“Calm down,” the man whispers, turning off the lights and scurrying to the back.

A child weeps uncontrollably, nearly breaking Clara's heart. She has a tender spot for all children, perhaps because she feels lost and alone like many of them.

She kneels next to two frightened children. “It's okay. We're safe in here.” Their parents seem occupied with their own fear.

One of the raucous boys taps Clara on the shoulder. She can smell the onions on his breath and knows it's Gordan, because he was the only one who ordered onion rings.

“Sit with us if those things scare you,” Gordan says.

She wants to say, “I wouldn't sit with you if your booth was the last safe place on earth,” but because she has a good heart and knows they would only laugh more, she simply smiles and turns back to the children.

With the blinds pulled, no one can see the beasts clicking and clacking to get inside. However, a few of the creatures have come to the side windows. Something about them triggers a memory—or perhaps a nightmare Clara has had—and she presses her temples.

The dream is of fire and sharp talons. She is young and being taken from everything she has known and loved. Down the hall she hears her parents screaming. Through the massive dark stone hallways she is pulled, grasped tightly, hair flying. And suddenly she is flying through the frigid wind with nothing but her nightclothes and her favorite blanket.

The teen boys abandon their booth and move into the bathroom, closing the door on others who bang and try to push their way in.

Suddenly the glass at the front of the restaurant gives a sickening crack. It won't be long before the creatures break through. Clara huddles with the others, unable to tear her eyes from the window.

Then a light shines outside and penetrates the shades as it approaches. Clara kneels with the children as the light grows brighter. The clicking and screeching of voices lessen, as if they had been called to another battle. The cracking of the window is replaced by a soft pinging, like marbles hitting a suit of armor.

It is deathly quiet inside, besides the gasping of adults and the whimpering of children. The pinging stops outside, and the light goes out.

A girl looks up at Clara with doe eyes. “Is it over?” she says, voice shaking.

Clara whispers, “I hope so.”

The doorknob turns. Children gasp. A woman clutches her husband's arm. The owner grabs a steak knife from a table and brandishes it, though whoever is at the door cannot see him.

As the door opens, Clara can see little until a sliver of light flashes and the orange glow of the kitchen stove reflects off something metallic.

“Hello?” a male voice says softly, then more manly and urgently, “You people still in here?”

“What do you want?” the owner says.

“You need to get out,” the young man says. “The minions are down for the moment, but that won't last.”

Something about the voice stirs Clara, jogs her memory. “Owen!” she says and rushes to him.

“Clara, stay away from him!” the owner yells. “He has a weapon!”

“I know him. He's my friend.” She turns to Owen. “Where have you been? Everyone's been looking for you.”

The others begin crowding around, even the bathrooms emptying. Someone says, “What did you call those things?”

“Minions. And they're down only temporarily. If you live near here, go. If not, find a safe spot and stay.”

Gordan calls out, “Well, if it isn't the invisible freshman. Where have you been?”

Clara is fascinated by the change in Owen's demeanor, by the way he stands straighter, chest out. His muscles are bigger, and he seems to look straight through Gordan. When she last saw Owen, his fear of Gordan and the others was palpable. Now he is anything but afraid.
What has happened to my friend?

Owen looks past Gordan. “Whoever wants to leave should do so now. Otherwise you'll be trapped here until the attack is over.”

“Who died and put you in charge?” Gordan says. “And where'd you get that thing?” He looks back at his friends. “Don't get too close or he'll use his new rubber sword.”

Owen opens the door. “Leave now. This will be your only chance.”

A few walk out, but most stay.

Gordan grabs Owen by the shirt as he passes. “We have a score to settle, kid.”

Owen grips Gordan's hand, and Clara marvels at how Owen has grown. Gordan used to seem so much bigger, but now they're almost eye to eye.

Gordan grimaces and lets go of Owen's shirt as the two lock eyes.

“I agree,” Owen says, “but now is not the time.”

“Be careful,” Gordan says, flexing his hand. “Threats can come back to haunt you.” He walks out, his friends close behind.

Owen pulls Clara outside. “We need to talk.”

He draws his sword at a buzzing in the distance, and Clara steps over writhing and squirming minions. “They're coming back to life.”

“We have a little time,” Owen says. “You live nearby, don't you?”

Clara nods. “I'll show you.”