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  The Wormling III: The Changeling

  Copyright © 2007 by Jerry B. Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration © 2007 by Tim Jessell. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Lorie Popp

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jenkins, Jerry B.

  The Wormling III : the Changeling / Jerry B. Jenkins ; Chris Fabry.

  p. cm.

  Summary: The Wormling, Owen Reeder, in his continued search for the Son, seeks advice from the Scribe, but along the way is constantly plagued by the Changeling, who can change shapes instantaneously, and is sent by the evil Dragon.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-0157-0 (softcover)

  [1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Dragons—Fiction. 4. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.] I. Fabry, Chris, date. II. Title. III. Title: Wormling three. IV. Title: Changeling.

  PZ7.J4138Wot 2007

  [Fic]—dc22 2006103300

  For Jamie

  “The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”

  Albert Einstein

  “An utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.”

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

  Helen Keller

  Table of Contents

  1: Lair Conversation

  2: Nicodemus

  3: Lair Liar

  4: Watcher

  5: Awakening

  6: Mordecai’s Vision

  7: Changeling

  8: Decisions

  9: Questions in the Night

  10: More Questions

  11: Unpleasant Reunion

  12: In the Tent

  13: Call to Arms

  14: Taken

  15: Decision

  16: The Village

  17: The Conversation

  18: Drushka’s Story

  19: The Scar

  20: The Stable

  21: The Iskek

  22: Watcher’s Memory

  23: Aftermath

  24: The Horn

  25: Names

  26: Yodom

  27: The Scribe

  28: Sock Soup

  29: In Mind

  30: Rachel’s Story

  31: Plans

  32: Argument

  33: Daagn’s Hopes

  34: Owen’s Fight

  35: Cold

  36: Words

  37: Holed up

  38: Progress

  39: Power

  40: Burden

  41: Under the Cart

  42: The Worst Dream

  43: Hot Breath

  44: Company

  45: Neodim

  46: New Fighters

  47: The Great Hall

  48: Diversion

  49: Connor’s Wife

  50: Trapped

  51: Back to Yodom

  52: Reunion

  53: The Quest

  54: A Sad Visitor

  55: Running

  56: The Panther

  57: The Cave

  58: Memories

  59: Chocolate Darkness

  60: The Report

  61: Pondering

  62: Desperate Questions

  63: A View from the Interrogation Room

  64: Subdued

  65: The Barn

  66: Presentation

  67: The Meeting

  68: Surprise Guest

  69: Whispered Messages

  70: Hard Questions

  71: Empty

  72: Certainty

  73: The King

  74: Caught

  About the Authors

  Imagine—if you dare—the most hideous, spine-tingling music—screeching violins and long, ominous bass notes that shake the ground. A cacophony of horror is perfect for the scene we are about to describe. For in the darkness of a pungent room, though high and far from what we call earth, sits a being so revolting and gruesome that some have wished we would leave him out of our story. They urge us to shy away from scenes like this, but what would a story be without a villain? How could we measure the good of one character unless we compared it to the bad of another?

  Without the being before us, we would not understand the meaning of putrid, malevolent, wicked, or even appalling. No, here lies the very heart of our tale, for it is our hero’s duty to defeat this foe, to utterly cleanse the world (both the visible and the invisible) of this powerful beast.

  At the moment, all we can see is his scaly back, along with his twitching tail. His head bobs at something. Is he eating the flesh of an enemy? Might he be devouring our hero even now? Or picking meat from the bones of some trusted friend of our hero? Or more awful still, could he be torturing someone, trying to pry the whereabouts of our hero from him or her?

  As we move into the lantern light in the corner, we clearly see the Dragon’s pointed ears encrusted with wax, his long snout with nostrils dripping a gelatinous green substance. The Dragon sniffs it back, and the tongue darts in and out. The moving lips reveal stained, jagged teeth that could snap you in two. Reptilian eyes with dark slits in the centers glow with what seems like fascination or anticipation. And the massive jaw is working.

  The body exudes evil power, and it is all we can do to stay in his presence—but stay we must. For he is not chewing or singing or talking to himself or doing anything superfluous. No, he is reading. But these are not words he can truly comprehend, as they are written for someone with a heart, with compassion.

  The Dragon shudders and mutters, “The Son, the Son, the Son. That’s all you write about, isn’t it?” He clears his throat, and a squeak of fire escapes but does not damage the book.

  “‘The Son shall have power and dominion’?” he chortles. “No. Your prophecies will not come true, for your Son is gone, a coward cowering in some corner. He will never be all you want him to be.”

  The Dragon snarls at a knock behind him and flips another page with a sharpened talon, trying in vain to tear a hole in the book. “What is it?”

  Enter RHM, Reginald Handler Mephistopheles (or right-hand man, if you prefer), who would usurp this stinky throne if he could. The two converse in hushed tones, the gist of the vile talk and innuendo concerning our hero and that “We had him right where we wanted him!”

  RHM bows his head. “Somehow he defeated your demon vipers and eluded you. But we still have the book—”

  “He is getting stronger,” the Dragon roars, caring nothing for letting his underling finish a sentence. “Each time he eludes us he becomes more confident.”

  “Not so strong that he could defeat you, sire.”

  “Of course not. But if he comes to believe he can defeat me, he can harm our plan, all we’ve worked so hard to accomplish, all we mean to destroy.” The Dragon turns back to the book. “These words speak of a new day, countering the rise of my kingdom. They suggest a model of the world under the Son’s rule.”

  “Such words would instill a fal
se hope in the people,” RHM says. “That is why you have so wisely kept words from them.”

  “The fact is, he found this. The Wormling read it, and the words became part of him. He read far enough to breach the portal; we know that. It’s to our advantage that the Son has no idea who he is.”

  “He can’t be far from the castle,” RHM says. He draws a circle on an aged map on the wall. “We think he is somewhere within this area, but this Watcher of his alerts him to our flyers, and the tracking device—”

  “Has been destroyed. I know.” The Dragon flips to the back of the book, brow furrowed as if struggling to grasp the meaning. “It says here—” he taps the page—“that their world will be cleansed by fire.”

  “Your plan all along, sire.”

  “Yes,” he purrs. “Truly perfect. They will welcome this cleansing as for their own good, and we will strike them down.” He turns a furtive eye toward his underling. “It also says that these beings are vulnerable to temptation.”

  RHM chuckles. “Right you are, sire.”

  The Dragon growls, and something flashes in his eyes. “Bring the Changeling. I have an important mission for him.”

  Now imagine music that changes suddenly, like darkness giving way to sunrise. Beautiful strings announce the light, and French horns welcome the new day.

  Nicodemus, a guardian of the light, sits among the tall pines—not that he has to rest or sleep or do anything humans must do, but he chooses to relax and enjoy the pine scent wafting along the hillside and the babble of a stream filled with brown trout. What a stark contrast to the Dragon is this good being, chosen to shadow our hero and guard him.

  From the time Nicodemus was first assigned to Owen Reeder (he did not know the boy would turn out to be the Wormling), the tall being has kept the boy in view, seen him discover his identity and grow in strength and knowledge. With each new challenge, Nicodemus has sensed a growing confidence in the lad.

  Other invisibles stalking Owen have called Nicodemus out, challenging him as they have the boy. Ever wise and obedient, Nicodemus has held back. Not that it was easy to listen to the taunts of the sniveling invisibles. But Nicodemus has a higher calling.

  “Still following the loser?” one would taunt.

  “The Dragon will fry him for breakfast,” another said. “And you with him.”

  They made fun of Owen’s name, his friends, and even that he carried the magical worm that could breach the portals.

  Because these beings knew Nicodemus was following Owen and were themselves seeking the life of his charge, Nicodemus stayed far enough away to throw them off. He withstood the taunts, believing with every ounce of strength in his being that his King would one day win the battle.

  When something moved in the treetops, Nicodemus sat up. A streak of light crossed the sky and landed near him. It was Rushalla, one of the King’s most trusted messengers.

  “What brings you?” Nicodemus said.

  The normally pleasant Rushalla gave a grim smile and handed him a parchment. “A message from the King.”

  “Directly from the Sovereign?”

  Rushalla looked away.

  Nicodemus scanned the message. “There is no question that this is the King’s own hand. But how—?”

  “You have sworn to uphold the King’s wishes,” Rushalla said.

  “Did I say I wouldn’t?” Nicodemus snapped.

  “You look troubled.”

  “Wouldn’t you be? After spending all this time and energy, after literally saving the Wormling’s life, I am to pull my protection? pull my watch care?”

  “You’re implying that you are directing his steps?” Rushalla said. “You are the one who has guided him this far?”

  “I-I am merely a helper sent by the Sovereign. I have no power beyond that which he gives.”

  “Or that which he takes away,” Rushalla said.

  “But what if the Dragon discovers the Wormling’s whereabouts? Or if his minions threaten the Wormling’s life? Even now a force is massing on the plain.”

  “Do you suddenly mistrust the Sovereign?”

  “Of course not. But in watching this young man, I have picked up some of his ways. I see how he walks through the possibilities of what might happen and what could happen before he makes a decision.”

  “You do not think the Sovereign has your charge’s best interests at heart?”

  “I fear what might happen to him without me.”

  “The lad has the Watcher. And he has his good heart.”

  “And he has the entire invisible kingdom arrayed against him,” Nicodemus spat. “You know what happened when the Dragon himself came after him.”

  “You think the Sovereign doesn’t care?”

  Nicodemus hung his head and shuddered. When he could speak, he said, “I’m not worthy. I’ve disgraced my Sovereign.”

  “Doubting is not cause for dismissal,” Rushalla said. “The Sovereign knows you care. These are only his wishes.”

  “But to leave the Wormling . . .” He looked at his orders again. “And to watch this man . . . by all accounts his situation is hopeless. He is without a Wormling mind. Without much of a mind at all. I am to go there and just wait and hope . . . ?”

  “You cannot predict what the Sovereign will do. No one knows his ways or his plans. We simply carry out his wishes.”

  “I know,” Nicodemus muttered. “But this?”

  The Changeling was the only being ever to actually saunter into the Dragon’s lair. Most cowered, and some even fainted at the possibility of being consumed by the Dragon.

  “You know, my brother does some decorating on the side,” the Changeling said, picking up a thighbone from the floor. “He could spruce this place up. Maybe a couch over here . . .”

  A rattle formed in the Dragon’s throat.

  “A coat of paint can do wonders, you know?” the Changeling said, suddenly wearing an actual coat dripping with paint. “Or perhaps you’d be more impressed with a coat of arms?”

  But instead of a knight’s outfit, the Changeling turned and pulled on a coat with several sleeves sticking out the front and back, all filled with actual arms.

  The Dragon harrumphed.

  “I came as soon as I heard you needed someone with . . . my special abilities,” the Changeling said. “What can I do you for, Your Lowness?”

  The Dragon could have incinerated the Changeling on the spot, but he looked amused. “What else can you do?”

  Immediately the Changeling took the form of RHM and put his arm around the Dragon’s aide. “It’s all in a day’s work, sire.”

  The Dragon raised his eyebrows. “You sound just like him.”

  “All I have to do is observe someone, and I can change into that person. Or I can pick up cues from their memory.” The Changeling treated the Dragon to impressions of several members of his council, including the deceased Dreadwart.

  “Splendid,” the Dragon said. “This will work nicely.”

  The Changeling bowed. “I’m pleased to have gained your favor, sire. I saved my best for last.”

  With a whirl, the Changeling stood face-to-face with the Dragon—as the Dragon. The two circled each other, squinting.

  RHM blinked and looked on as if he didn’t know which was which.

  When the Dragon spat fire, the Changeling transformed himself into a stick with a piece of meat sizzling and glowing.

  “That was not in the least amusing,” the Dragon said.

  The Changeling reverted to himself. “Begging your pardon, Your Dragon-ness, but I had to show you my abilities.” He held up an index finger. “I have many talents—many of which you still have not seen.”

  “I will admit that,” the Dragon said. “Now to our agreement and the task before you.”

  The three huddled over their plans. The Changeling asked questions as they studied a map of the kingdom.

  “Easy as taking candy from a baby,” the Changeling said, transforming himself into a baby in a carriage. He cried a
s RHM wheeled him from the room.

  Watcher awoke when the first rays of sunlight peeked into the cave she and the Wormling had chosen for shelter on their journey to find the Scribe. They had heard from townspeople that a man fitting the description lived near the White Mountain, and this was the direction they journeyed now.

  The Wormling lay fast asleep, his eyebrows knitted and cheeks ruddy. He had grown stronger, and now his arms tensed as if he were in some battle.

  She shook her head. “Keep up the fight, good Wormling,” she whispered as she slipped out of the cave.

  Watcher carried their drinking gourd in her mouth to bring back some water from the nearby brook for the Wormling. She set it down and lapped at the cool water, letting it refresh her. It was all she could do to resist jumping in.

  She had dipped the gourd and stepped away when she noticed a man standing next to a tree along the path to the cave, his back to her. He hadn’t been there when she passed . . . or had he? He wore the familiar tunic of the hill people she had grown up with. She stepped closer, studying him. The figure seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

  “You there,” she said softly, her words muffled by the gourd.

  When the man turned, Watcher dropped the gourd, and it split on a rock. She rushed to him. “Is it really you? Can it be?”

  “Ah, Watcher,” the man said, opening his arms wide. “It’s been such a long time.”

  Watcher buried her face in the man’s chest as he embraced her. “Bardig,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Watcher?” Owen said softly as he sat up. He was alone in the dark cave, only the glowing embers from last night’s fire giving any light.

  It was not strange for Watcher to wander off. But it had been a while since she had done that, especially after their narrow escape from the Dragon. Watcher had not let Owen out of her sight.

  Owen felt uneasy as he stretched, and his sword clanged against a rock. He could not imagine life without the weapon now. It empowered him and made him battle ready. He had proved himself again and again—even surprised himself against the venomous beasts guarding the book at the castle.

  The book.

  Pain shot through his chest each time he thought of it. To think of the Dragon in custody of that precious tome . . . Owen vowed to get it back. But how?