The Minions of Time Read online

  Erol bowed low. “Forgive the mess, Your Highnesses.”

  Erol’s wife, Kimshi, blushed. “If I’d known we had royalty coming, I would have put my husband to work cleaning.”

  The king spoke. “Your dwelling is fine. Thank you for the hospitality. Especially the music. It’s been so long since I’ve heard such wonderful sounds.”

  The queen ran a finger along a dusty table and sneered.

  “Play something else,” a young man from the castle said. “Something fit for a king and queen.”

  The musicians gathered in the main room, and Erol counted time with his foot and bow. The bright and airy music made the clan of Erol dance. Owen couldn’t help but clap and stomp along.

  The music suddenly stopped when a hulking figure entered, stooping low. His face was grimy, and his shoulders slumped from carrying the queen. Owen wondered why it had taken Mordecai so long to come inside—did he fear these friends, or was he simply unaccustomed to such crowds?

  “It’s him,” Erol said nervously, gathering his children and wife.

  “This is my friend,” Owen said. “His name is Mor—”

  “I know his name. He cursed us many years ago as he went through here on his way to the island. Back to torment us?”

  Mordecai spoke softly. “I was angry and hurt and wanted to die. But the King’s hand was with me despite it all. He sent the Wormling to me. He came to learn, but he taught much more. And if he calls you his friend, you are friends of mine as well. Can you forgive an old man?”

  Erol studied him warily, his face finally lightening. “We can, but not without food and more song. Kimshi, prepare a feast. We shall dine on the meat of forgiveness.”

  A clap of thunder racked the mountainside and echoed off the walls. Children dived under tables, and the castle dwellers huddled.

  “Do your caverns flood?” the king said.

  Erol gazed at the ceiling and shivered. “That’s not a rainstorm, Your Highness. That’s a storm of a different sort. Something terrible is being unleashed in the invisible kingdom.”

  Runners came from above, filling the narrow passages. “Demon flyers, sir. Along with every death machine of the Dragon. They’re sounding the mountain. We had to abandon our posts.”

  “Everyone take shelter in the depths,” Erol said. “Starbuck, lead our guests.”

  “What is sounding?” Owen said.

  Erol grabbed him by the arm and hurried along the passage. “They send waves that search for warm bodies. Deep inside these walls we won’t be detected, but we must hurry.”

  As the storm raged and the soundings continued, Owen, Erol, and Mordecai met in a secluded spot. Though Owen had revealed his identity to the king and queen, he still felt uneasy about talking with the castle dwellers about himself. But he had no reservations in speaking openly with Erol.

  The being’s eyes glistened in the firelight. When Owen explained what he had learned about himself, Erol dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  “I have no reason to doubt you,” he whispered. “I can tell by the fire that burns within you that you are the true Son of the King.”

  Erol immediately summoned his people and told them the news.

  Gasps filled the cavern as young and old, men and women covered their mouths, fell to their knees, or moved closer for a better look.

  Starbuck leaned against a wall, half hidden in the dim light.

  “I’m no different than I was before, Starbuck,” Owen said.

  “No different? This changes everything. As the Wormling, you lived among us, talked with us, even came to our rescue. But now . . .”

  Erol leaned close. “We have taught him that royalty is separate. They live in castles and eat food prepared by hired hands. Like them.” He nodded to the king and queen of the west. “They keep to themselves. They do not associate with our kind because we are lowly and different.”

  Dalphus stood in front of the king and queen to protect them.

  “That’s not as it should be,” Owen said. “And that’s not the way it will be in the King’s household.”

  “In your father’s household,” Mordecai said.

  Owen shuddered. “I don’t know the King, don’t remember him from my infancy. But I know in my heart that he would be pleased to call you his friend, Starbuck. And you, Erol. And you. All of you. There is no difference between people of low estate and high. We all come from the same dust.”

  Mordecai scratched his beard. “Doesn’t The Book of the King say something about our being equal in the King’s sight?”

  Owen nodded and recited:

  “Those who put their hope in the King will never be disappointed. It doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor, if you dwell in fertile lands or the desert, if you are praised among men or an outcast. There is one King, and he is generous and kind to anyone who asks for his help. All who call on him receive his love.”

  Starbuck looked on, eyes wide. “How do you remember all that?”

  Owen touched his chest. “The words were not written simply on the page. They were written on my heart. And each day they grow deeper and become part of me.”

  “What would you have us do?” Erol said. “Anything you ask . . .”

  “Do not be so quick in your promises,” Mordecai said. “You have no idea what he might ask.”

  “And do not be so quick in your judgments,” Erol said. “We may seem a gentle breed of singers, but our hearts are fiercely loyal to the King and his descendants.”

  “A great battle lies ahead,” Owen said. “I’m only now beginning to realize what that means. Before, I simply thought it would be the Son’s responsibility. Now I understand I am the Son.”

  “What can we do?” Erol said.

  “Sing a new song—and not just here but throughout the land.”

  “Singing is still forbidden; is it not?” Mordecai said.

  “By edict of the evil one,” Erol said. “I have no problem defying him.”

  “Many will hear your song and believe. They will follow you. Use all the instruments at your disposal, all the skill of the singers, all the harmonies that please the ear.”

  “What shall be our theme?”

  “That a new day is coming. After the fight is over and the battle is won, the King will establish his kingdom in every heart and unite every person from the Highlands and the Lowlands. There shall be no more division of clans, no more war, no more fighting with the Dragon, for he shall be defeated.”

  “Cast out?” Erol said.

  “Utterly.”

  “We won’t have to hide any longer, won’t have to keep our songs to ourselves.”

  “But what I’m asking you to do now is perhaps more dangerous than the battle itself. You’ll be exposed to the enemy as you sing.”

  Erol’s eyes were wet. “We will not be able to take part in the battle?”

  Owen pulled Erol close. “You will be by my side. I want to hear your victory song after the Dragon falls.”

  “Then we have work to do,” Erol said, rising. “Bring the instruments and a parchment. We will sing a new song!”

  RHM returned from the Prisons of Shambal under cover of night. He bore two black cases, one large and clearly harder to carry than the other because of something struggling to get out.

  RHM remained discreet, flying along the tops of the trees in the darkened forests. He rehearsed what he would say to his liege, every nuance, every syllable. One wrong move, even a perceived mistake, could mean his life.

  When he drew close to the clearing below the Dragon’s castle, he shot straight into the sky and ascended to the lair. Sentries came brandishing fire wands until they recognized him and waved him onward. RHM could tell they were intrigued by the cases, but they knew better than to inquire.

  RHM flew directly to the parapet at the highest point of the castle, where his master would be. Flapping his wings noisily to warn the Dragon, he stepped onto the stones and set the black cases down a moment, keeping them ever in
his sight.

  The Dragon huddled in a corner, devouring some grotesque meaty flesh, slopping and crunching.

  “Sire, I have brought what you requested,” RHM said, bowing low.

  The Dragon turned, teeth red with the blood of another victim. He wiped his lips and approached the cases gingerly, studying them. “Any trouble with the pod?”

  “They haven’t hatched, so the timing seems almost perfect. A good call on your part, sire.”

  “Yes,” the Dragon growled. “And is the nestor in that case?” He peeked inside but stayed a good distance away. “It looks rather large.” Moving closer, he scraped a razor-sharp talon along the top of the case like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  RHM nodded. “The nestor has not enjoyed being cooped up away from its little ones.”

  The Dragon’s eyes gleamed in the fading moonlight as he cocked his head and put an ear to the side of the case as if listening for the heartbeat of an unborn child. “There, there,” he cooed. “You’ll be out and on your way soon.”

  The case shook violently, and the Dragon recoiled. “It wants out,” he said. “Open it.”

  “But, sire, there is a good chance—”

  “Open it,” the Dragon snarled. “You can see that even my voice soothes it.”

  RHM weighed his response. He could play it safe and simply do as the Dragon suggested. However, if the nestor escaped, the Dragon would blame him, and he would be incinerated on the spot.

  “Your Highness, your wish is my command. But I fear—” RHM saw his master’s eyes narrow. “Very well, sire.”

  RHM loosed the leather bindings from both sides, then unwound the cord from a circular block. Lastly, he used a small key to unfasten the locks, all the while holding down the lid.

  “Come to me, beautiful nestor,” the Dragon purred, like a child coaxing a puppy from a travel container.

  RHM released the lid, and a hideous creature flopped forward on thin wings. Its body seemed too large for its spiny legs, and when it looked up at the Dragon with multiple eyes, it seemed to fawn before him, relaxing and rolling its wings underneath its body.

  “There, there,” the Dragon said. “You see? Gentle and cuddly like a baby.”

  Suddenly the creature puffed like an adder, and its wings shot out. With a burst and an intense buzz, it sped into the air.

  RHM fell back, shrieking, but the Dragon stood straight, watching.

  The nestor dived for the Dragon’s back, opening its mouth and plunging down. It banged off a hard-as-rock scale and hung suspended a moment. Before the creature could dart away, the Dragon swatted it against a wall. It crunched there, slid to the floor, and lay still.

  RHM moved carefully behind the Dragon. “Is it . . . dead?”

  “With any luck, it’s only stunned. Get it back in the case.”

  RHM cautiously stepped toward the body, pausing at the hideous face and daggerlike teeth that sent a shiver through him. He threw the box over it, carefully brought the lid up, and locked it.

  Immediately the box buzzed and shook.

  “And you say the hive is nearly fully developed?” the Dragon said.

  “Yes, sire. The keeper said the ripening is nearly complete. Each tiny spot is an individual minion and below that another and another until you reach the center. The limited kronos venom is released through the teeth. Each sting releases a single drop into the bloodstream of the human target. Any more than that and the victim would shrivel and die within a day or two.”

  The Dragon skulked back to the corner and bit another piece of meat and began to chew. The large case continued to rattle and buzz as the Dragon slurped red liquid from a goblet and belched.

  “Prepare for one more journey,” the Dragon said. He explained the precise direction and how to break through the invisible barrier to the Highlands.

  “You will see from the air a burned-out and charred house. Take the nestor into the cellar and hang the pod on a rafter. Leave the cord tied around the nestor’s case. It will eventually chew through it.”

  “And it will stay with the pod?”

  “Other than gathering food, yes. The pod is its life. Until the minions mature, the nestor will nurture them.”

  “How long before they break free and accomplish your task?”

  The Dragon licked his lips, and his eyes shimmered. “Long before the humans in the Highlands recognize their need for me. They will beg. They will weep. The pain of quick years under the minions’ sting will bring them low. And they will honor me as their sovereign.

  “It won’t be long now. Whether the Wormling lives or dies, whether the Son shows himself or not, the two worlds will unite under my supremacy. The Highlanders, who know nothing of me, who don’t even believe our realm exists, will learn of me and feel my wrath. And they will bow and call me king.”

  Owen stayed underground with the people of the castle and the musicians of Erol for two days, avoiding the searching eyes of the invisibles who screeched and flew above. The king and queen of the west had retreated to a sectioned-off portion of the cave with their servants, still clearly wary of Owen and the musicians. Erol’s clan had food to last a whole winter season, and the meals—and music—were excellent.

  However, Owen grew restless, wishing he could communicate with Watcher and wanting to continue his journey as quickly as possible. He consulted with Mordecai and Erol and also included Starbuck, knowing that he needed fresh, young minds in significant decisions, for he himself had been quite young when his mission had begun.

  “You have no sword,” Mordecai said.

  “Erol will lend me a weapon.”

  “One that heals?” Mordecai said.

  “I have nothing like that,” Erol said. “But our swords and arrows are newly sharpened.”

  “Why not raise an army from throughout the land?” Mordecai said. “Prepare for battle? It would be much safer.”

  “Followers of the King are not called to safety,” Owen said.

  “You are more than a follower. You are the Son.”

  “There are things you do not know, Mordecai.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You must trust me.”

  Mordecai ran a hand through his hair, his bulbous nose shining in the firelight. “No explanation needed. I would follow you into the Dragon’s lair itself if you asked. But for the sake of the people, especially those who do not know you . . .”

  Starbuck offered to recruit warriors as well, and then a deep voice resonated off the walls. “I’ll go too.”

  Owen turned, surprised. “What are you doing there in the shadows?”

  “Just listening, sir,” a boy said, stepping into the light to reveal scruffy hair and beady eyes, not to mention a frame much too tiny for the sonorous voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “He’s a spy for the king of the west,” Mordecai said.

  Owen smiled and beckoned the lad. “What’s your name?”

  “Rogers, sir.”

  “Are your parents here?”

  “No, sir. I’m a stable boy for the king. He was kind enough to take me in when my parents were killed.”

  “Killed how?” Mordecai said, leaning forward, inspecting the boy.

  “A fire, sir. I was gathering water when it happened.”

  “Any idea how it started?” Owen said.

  “An attack. I heard wings flapping as I returned, and then I found our cabin engulfed in flames.”

  “Sounds familiar, Mordecai, doesn’t it?” Owen said. Mordecai himself had been taken in by the true King when just a boy. Eventually the King made him captain of the guard to protect the King’s family. His failure to protect the King’s children sent him into a self-imposed exile.

  Mordecai stared at the boy. “How did you get over here without our knowing?”

  Rogers shrugged. “It is my gift. I am able to walk ever so lightly, even on dry ground. I saw you both at the beach the other night and heard everything you said. I vowed I would follow you into battle
.”

  Owen patted the boy on the head. “We can use a disappearing artist like you. Train yourself to be even quieter and stay close to me. You will be part of the battle.”

  Starbuck squinted in the darkness. “You’ll need more than waifs. You need strong warriors. Thousands of them.”

  “It is not the size of the army that wins the battle,” Owen said. “We should not trust in our own power or strength. Indeed, The Book of the King says, ‘Some trust in archers, others in their swords, but the one who trusts in the King shall have victory.’ My goal is to follow him every step of the way and trust his leading. He has not failed me yet.”

  “You can’t even remember your father,” Mordecai said.

  “But I have felt him here all my life.” Owen touched his chest. “Even when I did not know that the man who called himself my father in the Highlands was simply playing a trick on me.”

  “Sir?” Rogers said. “Does the book explain why the King went away? why the people have lived in such fear for so long?”

  Owen nodded. “Not in so many words, but it does talk about our enemy and how he plots. The first thing he did here after the King left was to outlaw singing. He takes the joy from life and replaces it with duty and rules. He kills and destroys to instill fear and compel you to follow, rather than ask you to follow.

  “You see, the King, my father, gives life. He is like a bubbling spring, gushing to overflowing, bidding everyone to come and drink. When we do, we take our place in his grand design.”

  “Which is what?” Rogers said.

  “Wholeness. Unity.” Owen interlaced his fingers. “A union so deep inside that it defies explanation. We can’t even conceive it yet. For us and those in the Highlands.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “It’s what the King had in mind all along until the Dragon rebelled. And that sent a ripple tearing through both worlds—and the invisible one above them.”

  Owen stood as the queen approached with several ladies of her court. He blushed and stared at the floor when they looked at him, and his mouth felt full of cotton. How am I ever going to marry someone if I can’t even look women in the face?