The Minions of Time Read online

  Owen pushed away, pulling his feet to his chest and just eluding the Kerrol’s teeth as its nose slammed the cage bottom. The cage burst free of the water, leaving in its wake a swirling mass of bubbles and brine and seaweed.

  Owen surfaced to take a breath and saw the cage a few yards away, the bottom cracked in two, people scurrying to get out, and no Kerrol in sight. Owen’s heart sank, knowing the Kerrol would grab them one by one as they tried to swim away.

  He dived again, thrashing and screaming to attract the Kerrol. He resurfaced, splashing as violently as he could. The skiff was closer now, and those who could swim struggled toward it. Others held on to the cage, shuddering, whimpering for help.

  Suddenly the Kerrol rose between the skiff and the escapees and opened wide, showing its knifelike teeth. Its roar sent shock waves across the water, and the people froze.

  But Owen yelled and waved. “Hey, Kerrol, over here! Come on, you overgrown snake! Come and get me!”

  The Kerrol turned and narrowed its eyes at Owen, nostrils flared. It dived for the depths, causing a wave to overtake the swimmers.

  “Get to that skiff!” Owen yelled as the grateful swimmers screamed their thank-yous and flailed toward the craft.

  “Ho there!” came the call of a familiar voice.

  “Mordecai?” And as the water swirled and sucked Owen down as if a plug had been pulled from a drain, he cried out, “Get them aboard, Mordecai!”

  Foam and froth bubbled while Owen spun as if in a washing machine. The Kerrol was swimming in a circle below, causing the swirl. Owen slid down the funnel with his hand out, like a surfer touching the inside of a wave, unable to slow himself, pulled inexorably downward.

  * * *

  At the bottom, the Kerrol prepared for his meal, lying in wait as the boy tumbled toward his gaping mouth.

  Mordecai helped the soggy people onto his boat. They sputtered and coughed, and some retched over the side, throwing up salt water.

  “We must retrieve the king and queen,” a fancily dressed man said, motioning at what was left of the cage.

  Three children and a man and a woman dressed in finery clung to it.

  “King of what?” Mordecai demanded.

  “King of the west, sir,” a woman said. “And we are his servants.”

  Mordecai sneered. “He’s too close to the whirlpool.”

  “You cannot leave them,” the man said.

  “You left him. Why don’t you go fetch him?”

  “But the children,” a woman pleaded. “We can’t leave them.”

  “If that beast comes back, none of us will survive.” Mordecai gave pieces of wood to the people and commanded them to row. He pulled a coil of vines from under a sack on the other side of the skiff.

  With a mighty toss, Mordecai threw the vine near the cage. “Ho there! Grab this!”

  The king and queen grabbed the vine, but the children would not follow. No matter what Mordecai or the others said, the three clung to the sinking cage.

  Mordecai began to pull the vine, but as he did, the king let go and swam back to the cage. His wife grabbed for him, tugging at his robe, but he tore away and made it to the cage, prying the screaming children’s hands from the bars. With the children on his back, he swam to the vine.

  “Row!” Mordecai yelled as he pulled at the vine.

  The people used the wooden slats to propel the vessel toward the islands.

  When Mordecai had pulled the king, queen, and children to within 10 yards of the skiff, he said to the finely dressed man, “Who was that who yelled at me and dived in the water?”

  “Just a boy,” the man said. “He came to us shortly before the Dragon burned the castle.”

  “The Dragon?” Mordecai said. “And you say he came to you just before . . .”

  The king pushed his wife onto the skiff and helped the children up. “He pretended to be someone else to the Dragon. He tried to save us.”

  Mordecai’s heart quickened as he grasped the man’s hand and pulled him aboard. “Describe him to me.”

  The world seemed to spin in a different direction. Not a day had gone by that Mordecai hadn’t thought of his young friend. Not a day had gone by that he didn’t regret letting him go. How had he fared in his quest for the Son? Had he been able to retrieve The Book of the King? That he had met the Dragon and lived was a good sign, but now . . .

  Mordecai whispered, “The Wormling.” He turned to those paddling and shouted, “Turn us around. Now!”

  “You’ll kill us all,” the man in the fine coat said, nearly falling overboard. “We’re overloaded as it is. Besides, that creature is sure to have—”

  Mordecai grabbed the man and knotted his embroidered cloth with a fist. With clenched teeth and eyes that bored into the man, he said, “Do you know who he is? Do you know what he’s trying to do? You do not deserve to be helped by someone like the Wormling.”

  The other passengers murmured among themselves. It was clear they had heard of the Wormling and perhaps had been told tall tales about him.

  “We didn’t know, sir,” a child said. “I thought there was something strange about his eyes, but I never dreamed he was the Wormling.”

  Mordecai switched the sail to turn the skiff toward the swirling water.

  “I command you to turn this boat toward the island,” the queen said. “You are subject to our rule.”

  “I am no more your subject than the wind is, madam,” Mordecai said. “If you want to make for the island, start swimming. Otherwise keep your mouth closed.”

  Sliding down the whirlpool toward the Kerrol, Owen realized it didn’t matter how royal his blood was—he was about to be eaten. His best course was to tuck his arms to his sides and become a missile, hurtling past the teeth and slamming the back of the beast’s throat with a thud.

  Everything grew dark, and Owen felt the tongue of the creature try to push him toward the teeth. Owen grabbed the spiny tissue hanging above him—what is called an epiglottis in humans—and hung there a second before sliding down the Kerrol’s throat.

  * * *

  What a pity, the Kerrol thought. Gone before I could chew you.

  Mordecai watched in horror as the swirling stopped, the hole closed, and the surface of the water calmed. The people seemed to stare in disbelief. All sounds from the Wormling had ended, and the skiff lay drifting lazily in open water. A black gull passed overhead, then darted for shore.

  Mordecai studied the island with dread before turning to his refugees. “If you have any strength left, row for your lives away from the island to the other shore.”

  All but the king and the queen, who had positioned themselves in the middle of the skiff beside the sail pole, stuck hands and wood in the water and worked. Even the children must have caught the fear in Mordecai’s voice, for they leaned over the edge, trying to propel the skiff faster.

  If the Kerrol had killed the Wormling, Mordecai only hoped it would be satisfied and not return to the surface. But who was he kidding? When had the Kerrol ever been satisfied? Mordecai had watched this beast devour sea and land creatures at will, and nothing ever stopped it. Only the Wormling had ever escaped it, and then only once. The Kerrol was an eating machine.

  The lad had given his life for these people, and if Mordecai understood correctly, he hardly knew them. And what a way to die. At the bottom of a funnel of water, chomped by a hungry beast.

  The skiff jerked violently forward, forcing Mordecai to wobble and ride it like a surfboard. And there, rising from the depths, came the huge serpent that had caused the wave. Mordecai slowly ran his gaze across the scaly skin to the monstrous head, vicious and feral, with dead, hungry eyes.

  The people gasped. Although he had seen the monster many times, Mordecai had never been this close. It merely stared at the skiff, as if admiring a perfect plate of hors d’oeuvres. And Mordecai knew, as the largest man aboard, that he was the main course.

  He stepped between the king and queen, quickly removed the crudely m
ade cloth sail, and pulled the pole from its holder. He wrestled it to his shoulder, causing those around him to duck, the sharp end of the pole aimed at the monster.

  “You don’t think you can kill that thing,” the fancily dressed man said.

  “Trying is better than not. I surely don’t aim to go down without a fight.”

  “Reason with it!” the queen screeched.

  “There is no reasoning with evil,” Mordecai said, eyes locked on the monster. “I learned that long ago, and you’d best learn it as well.”

  Strangely, with the beast looming, other than the lapping water, all was silent. Mordecai knew how swift this creature was, and if it lunged, he planned to shove the pole directly into one of its eyes. It was their only hope.

  But the Kerrol’s seemingly puzzled eyes shifted. Its neck straightened, its throat bulged, and the green, scaly cheeks puffed like a child’s mouth stuffed with sweets. It violently shook left, then right, finally snapping its head forward, then again only harder. The roiling water sent the skiff forward before the third lunge.

  Mordecai dropped his jaw as something came hurtling from the creature’s throat and shot from its mouth.

  Forgive us if you’re trying to eat whilst reading this, but we feel compelled to relate the lengths to which our hero was willing to go to help those he barely knew. Poor Owen, the brave Wormling, was spewed from the Kerrol along with pieces of the flyer, seawater, partially digested fish, seaweed, old wood, and stomach acid. Gallons of this unsavory mess projected the Wormling like a slingshot toward the shore.

  “Aaaahhhhhhhhhh!” the boy yelled as he flew, finally landing with a splash about a hundred yards past the skiff.

  “Paddle!” Mordecai shouted as the pointed horns at the top of the Kerrol’s head disappeared into the murky water.

  Owen awoke in the dark on the sandy shore, a hairy face hovering over him. “Mordecai,” he whispered. A fire blazed in a pit nearby, people huddled around it, faces reflecting the orange glow. It was clear they had pulled apart the skiff to use for the fire.

  “What happened down there?” Mordecai said.

  Owen leaned up on his elbows. “There was no way to keep from falling into the Kerrol’s mouth, so I just did everything I could to avoid those teeth. Remember that story from The Book of the King where the man is swallowed by the huge fish?”

  Mordecai nodded. “At least you weren’t in there three days.”

  “He wouldn’t have been either if he’d had jargid skins in his shirt. I rubbed them on the Kerrol’s stomach. He must be allergic.”

  Mordecai shook his head and pulled from his tunic a weathered manuscript. “Your notes on The Book of the King. You left this behind—why?”

  “For you. So you might read and believe.” Owen scanned the people by the fire. “Did everyone make it?”

  Mordecai nodded.

  “How will you get back?”

  “I’m not going,” Mordecai said. “Since you left I’ve regretted every moment I stayed. I should have come with you.”

  “Believe me, we could have used your help.”

  “I promised myself time and again that I would follow you, but each morning I looked at the tide and said, ‘Not today, tomorrow.’ But tomorrow never came. I stared at the sunset each night, remembering the times we shared, trying to imagine what you were going through. I know I let you down by staying. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s done is done, friend,” Owen said.

  “I can’t wait to hear of your adventures. Where is Watcher?”

  Owen described what had happened at the Castle on the Moor—how Watcher and their horse, Humphrey, had gone into hiding waiting for him.

  “And what of The Book of the King?”

  “Watcher has it as well as Mucker.” Owen looked at the ground. “But the Dragon has my sword and the missing chapter.”

  “Missing chapter?”

  Owen explained how he had heard of it from the Scribe, their fight with the vaxors, how he fooled the Dragon, his trip into the White Mountain to rescue the workers, and his eventual capture.

  “You have been busy,” Mordecai said. “When I saw the transport flyers taking their prisoners, I could stand it no longer. I set out against the tide, having no idea one would crash and that it would be you in the water.”

  “The King even used your indecision,” Owen said. “As the book says, ‘You were prepared for such a time as this.’ It’s not too late to go with us.”

  Mordecai studied him. “Any progress on finding the Son?”

  “Oh, Mordecai—,” Owen began.

  The king of the west’s armor bearer approached and bowed. He introduced himself as Dalphus. “The king would like an audience with you both when convenient.”

  Owen stood and brushed off his clothes. “We will come now. But first we have to douse this fire.”

  Dalphus stopped and turned. “The people need the warmth. Besides, you are not in charge here.”

  “Wisdom leads an army, Dalphus. And cunning. It is foolish to make a fire here. You’ll alert every demon flyer and the Dragon himself of our whereabouts.”

  “Answer my question,” Mordecai said, a hand on Owen’s arm. “Have you found the Son?”

  “You defy the rule of our sovereign?” Dalphus said. “He ordered this bonfire for the warmth of the people.”

  “If I know your sovereign, his wife ordered this fire.” Owen kicked sand on the blaze as the people scattered. Mordecai joined in.

  “We’re cold!” the people cried.

  “Who does he think he is?”

  “Because he survived that sea monster he thinks he can do as he pleases.”

  Mordecai grabbed Owen’s shoulder. “Tell me what you found, Wormling. Tell me about the Son. Does he live?”

  Owen shook free and clenched his teeth. “He lives. And I will tell you but not now.”

  Owen’s problem was that he himself wasn’t completely convinced he was the Son. Every time the thought hit him that he had a father, a mother, a sister, and even a future bride, his heart leaped. But when he thought of the responsibility that came with Sonship, he backed away. How could he convince anyone to follow him if he didn’t totally believe? He couldn’t even get them to douse the fire without a fight.

  The king and queen sat dry and warm beneath a lean-to. Even in this strange, rough setting, they bore the air of royalty. Owen bowed, but Mordecai approached them as if they were street people. Clearly more was going on here than polite conversation.

  “Why did you put out the fire?” the queen said. “The king was bestowing warmth on his subjects.”

  “Your Highness,” Owen said, “no rudeness was intended. But I know this country and what lurks in the shadows.”

  “You usurped the authority of your sovereign.”

  The king put a hand on her shoulder. “Dear, it’s all right. I’m sure our friend is right. The fire could signal our enemies.”

  “Yes,” Owen said, “and as soon as they discover a missing transport flyer, they’ll come looking.”

  “Well, someone is going to have to take us from this place,” the queen said. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I have friends a few miles that way,” Owen said. “They shot the beast from the air.”

  “Some friends,” the queen said. “They nearly got us killed. I should like to have a conversation with the leader of that team of archers.”

  “Young man,” the king said, “tell us who you are. Back at the castle you pretended to be someone else.”

  “I am the Wormling,” Owen said. “I came from the Highlands to find the Son of the King.”

  “How do we know he’s not pretending now?” the queen said.

  “Let him speak,” Mordecai said.

  Dalphus stepped close, but since he had no weapon and Mordecai was almost twice his size (especially around the belly), he stepped back at the old man’s glare.

  “I know your daughter was taken from you when she was young,” Owen said.
“I know your heart breaks for her. I was given The Book of the King, which led me to your castle. I have been in search of the Son and . . .” Owen trailed off. His thoughts swirled. There was no explanation other than that he was the Son. He fit the prophecy. The wound on his heel. All the writings pointed to him.

  The queen shifted. “Yes, go on. Go on.”

  Mordecai inched closer, and sweat trickled down Owen’s neck. This was a thousand times worse than standing before a class and trying to speak, yet he was suddenly overcome with peace and a power he had never felt before. “I discovered the Son at the Castle on the Moor,” he said.

  The king rose. “In our castle? Who? What is his name?”

  “You’re lying,” the queen said. “How could this person have been right under our noses?”

  Owen cleared his throat and ran a foot through the sand. He whispered to the king, “The Son, the one who is to marry your daughter and unite the two worlds, the one who will lead a strong army against the Dragon and his forces . . .”

  “Yes?” the king said.

  “Yes?” the queen said.

  “Yes?” Mordecai said.

  Owen stepped back and spread his feet. “I am he.”

  There was a long silence as they merely stared. Owen heard only the water lapping at the shore.

  And then came the laughter. Deep and hearty.

  “You,” the queen said, “the King’s Son?” She doubled over, holding her stomach as she cackled.

  The people gathered and laughed so hard they cried. The king looked away, smiling.

  Mordecai simply studied Owen’s face.

  Well, that couldn’t have gone as well as you’d hoped,” Mordecai said as he followed Owen from the laughter to the water’s edge.

  The moon reflected off the surface, and Owen wondered if demon flyers were near. He wished Watcher were with him.

  “What about you?” Owen said finally. “Do you believe me? Or do you scoff too?”

  “Of course I believe you,” Mordecai said a little too quickly and without conviction. “I mean, I’ve always trusted you. Always believed . . .”