The Minions of Time (21 page)

Owen's father ushered him to the doorway of the bedroom.

“I found my mother,” Owen whispered. “The Queen. But I did not know she was my mother. Now she is lost.”

“You will find her. You must find her.”

“But won't the Dragon pour out his wrath on her?”

“The Dragon will do as he wills. That does not change my plan. Be careful when you return to the Lowlands.”

“I know I must go back to breach the four portals and fulfill the prophecy. But I have breached only two of them. So I must go back twice?”

“You must understand why the portals are there to begin with. I made them. I provided them as a way to bring both worlds together, but they were sealed by the Dragon and the earth was moved inside. Until you, the only way to the Highlands was through the heavenly realm.”

“The Dragon made those seals with his likeness and put them there?”

“Yes.”

“But you breached the portal under the bookstore.”

“True, but the Dragon blocked it again. The only way for the path to be opened was for you to move through with the help of Mucker. You are one of them—the Highlanders and Lowlanders. You are my Son, but you are also one of them. Do you understand?”

Owen nodded. “But why would I need to break through all four portals?”

“To release the stronghold of the Dragon. Because you moved through those portals, you have gained entry for everyone from the Highlands and Lowlands to be united. Their worlds can be joined, and they again can be whole through the power of the words of the book and the power of the King.”

Owen thought for a moment. “If I go back to the Lowlands, that's only three portals I've breached. Where's the fourth?”

The King smiled. “Now I will tell you something even the Dragon does not know. When you return to the Lowlands, you will have breached all four.”

“How?”

“Remember I wrote of these portals. They were made by me and only sealed by the Dragon. Three portals joined the earthly kingdoms, but one portal was the realm of the heavenlies. That is the way you were taken when you were young. Do you see?”

Owen's eyes widened. “When he took me from you.”

The King's eyes twinkled in the firelight. “I was able to use even the Dragon's snatching of you for my own purposes.”

“It is too much to take in,” Owen said. “All you've planned is wonderful.”

“And the future is more wonderful than you can imagine.”

“Will you come with me, Father?”

The King put a hand on Owen's head. “I have work to do. Trust me. I will never leave you. I will never abandon you. Do you believe that?”

Owen nodded. “You have always been with me. Even when I did not know you were looking for me. I felt you through every story, every longing.”

“Go to her,” the King said. “Speak with your future bride.”

Owen pushed the hanging blanket aside and stepped in. Only the flicker of a candle gave light here. The floor creaked beneath Owen as he neared the bed. The covers moved and Owen's heart fluttered. He had never been so frightened and excited.

Owen heard a groan and saw matted, gray hair and one eye peeking at him.

“Owen? Is that you?”

Owen was sure he had seen those eyes before, but he certainly didn't recognize the voice. Her hair was the color of dirty snow—or was that just the effect of the candle?

“Do I know you?” Owen said.

“For only a short time,” the woman said, sitting up so Owen finally saw her entire face. “But I feel like I've known you all my life.”

The woman's face was wrinkled and rough from age. She appeared old enough to be Owen's grandmother. The woman sensed his unease. “The man in there brought me to this place after I was bitten.”

Owen wished he could heal her with the sword, but he knew it was too late. He knelt and looked into the woman's eyes. There was something familiar there, but he couldn't place it. A sadness covered her face.

A strong wind shook the shack violently, and Owen heard the door open and close. He rose, but the old woman grabbed his arm with a hand gnarled from age. Her body trembled.

“Don't let them bite you,” she said, gasping. “The pain is unbearable, and the effect is permanent.”

Owen kissed her hand and placed it gently back on the cover. “I will come back for you. We will meet again. Hold on to everything that man tells you.”

Owen moved out of the room and back to where Clara continued reading. “Where did Mr. Page go?” he said.

Without looking up she said, “He didn't say.”

Though Clara looked as if he were stealing a part of her, Owen closed the book and put it in his pack.

As the wind continued to howl, he nodded toward the bedroom and said, “I need you to watch her. Keep her safe and warm and give her food and water.”

“Where will you be?”

“Looking for my father. Our father.”

* * *

Wielding his sword, Owen ran into the wind, searching the sky for the minions of time. Had they been blown away by the wind?

Darkness gathered thicker than Owen could remember. He ran, searching for any sign of his father, passing the street where the bookstore's sign had fallen at a weird angle and dangled over the sidewalk.

A pack of minions flew overhead, their voices blown about on the wind. Owen strained to hear one exclaim, “He threatens our nest! Converge on him in the power of the Dragon!”

The nest. Under the B and B.

He ran with new purpose and a strength he could not explain. He felt the very picture of the verse in
The Book of the King
:

The King gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even young people grow tired, slip, and fall, but any who put their trust in the King will find new power. They will fly on winged creatures. They will move through the night and not be tired. They will not grow faint, though the task ahead is arduous.

Owen passed the elementary school and neared the burned-out shell of the B and B. A streetlight flickered, and he caught sight of some creature on the side of the blackened building. The end of his sword cast a glow, and he saw it was Mr. Page—the King—his father, scaling the structure.

In a moment Owen would never forget, the man smiled at him, but stubborn and unwavering, he kept climbing until he reached the peak of the only spire left standing. Owen could only look on helplessly, spellbound.

An awful sound behind him made Owen turn to see a group of flying minions, a long mass of gnashing, screeching beasts. Atop the spire, Owen's father opened his coat and tore off his shirt, exposing his chest.

“No!” Owen screamed, throwing his sword as high as he could, but it fell short of the throng of minions.

As the sword descended, the minions screeched and taunted and flew into Owen's father's chest. He wrapped his coat around them as if gathering a stack of unwanted books.

The sword stuck in the earth beside Owen.

His father closed his eyes and fell backward.

Splintering wood was followed by a deep, crushing explosion. Smoke rose from the B and B.

“Oh, Father!”

Batwing flew as fast as his wings would carry him. With everything in him he had flown higher than ever—all the way to the Dragon's lair. He saw the Dragon fume and foam and call down curses upon the land. And when the army of the Dragon had moved, so had Batwing. He feared he would be too late to warn Watcher and the others.

Compared to the Dragon's army, the army of the Wormling was small. Batwing knew from talking with the King long before he had even met the Wormling that strength and victory do not come from numbers. But in this case the masses formed against them were simply too overwhelming, and Batwing plunged back to the Lowlands at breakneck speed.

He came near what was left of the White Mountain. Smoke still billowed from it, but there was more smoke in the valley near the forest of Emul. Trees burned, and fields were littered with small, lifeless objects.

Batwing extended his wings, trying desperately to stop, but he crashed into what he thought was a tree stump, only to come to his senses and realize it was one of the clan of Erol.

He fell back, trying to catch his breath, and bumped into another body. Connor stared through lifeless eyes! All around him lay bodies. The land was strewn with the dead. Mordecai lay by a tree, as did Burden.

Batwing stumbled from one body to the next, searching for any sign of the living. When he moved past a large rock and saw four still hooves, he broke down.

“Watcher, I'm sorry!” he sobbed. “I tried to get here to warn you.”

He cradled her head in his lap and stared into the distance where the armies of the Dragon retreated. The sorrow nearly broke him.

If only the Wormling were here. If only his sword could touch these friends. If only . . .

Owen grabbed his sword and picked his way through the rubble until he stood over a hole deep in the earth. It had shot straight through the elevator shaft, leaving the space perfectly clean.

He had hoped to find his father and use his sword to heal him. But his father had chosen to take the minions down with him, sacrificing his scarred body.

Owen knelt as sirens blared in the distance. The wind was calm now. A light shone on the horizon as clouds parted.

Owen feared his heart would break, and perhaps it would have had he not heard a whisper. It was the voice he had heard long ago while running from Gordan, the voice he had heard on the mountain. The voice of his friend Nicodemus.

“Remember this, Owen Reeder. You bear the Sword of the Wormling. You are the true Son of the King, the keeper of the sacred book. And the author's blood flows through your veins.”

About the Authors

Jerry B. Jenkins
(jerryjenkins.com) is the writer of the Left Behind series. He owns the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild, an organization dedicated to mentoring aspiring authors. Former vice president for publishing for the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago, he also served many years as editor of
Moody
magazine and now serves on Moody's board of trustees.

His writing has appeared in publications as varied as
Time
magazine,
Reader's Digest, Parade, Guideposts,
in-flight magazines, and dozens of other periodicals. Jenkins's biographies include books with Billy Graham, Hank Aaron, Bill Gaither, Luis Palau, Walter Payton, Orel Hershiser, and Nolan Ryan, among many others. His books appear regularly on the
New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal,
and
Publishers Weekly
best-seller lists.

Jerry is also the writer of the nationally syndicated sports-story comic strip
Gil Thorp,
distributed to newspapers across the United States by Tribune Media Services.

Jerry and his wife, Dianna, live in Colorado and have three grown sons and four grandchildren.

* * *

Chris Fabry
is a writer and broadcaster who lives in Colorado. He has written more than 50 books, including the RPM series and collaboration on the Left Behind: The Kids and Red Rock Mysteries series.

You may have heard his voice on Focus on the Family, Moody Broadcasting, or Love Worth Finding. He has also written for
Adventures in Odyssey
and
Radio Theatre
.

Chris is a graduate of the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. He and his wife, Andrea, have nine children, two dogs, and a large car-insurance bill.