The Minions of Time (3 page)

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 made 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.