The Minions of Time (6 page)

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?

“I come with a proposal,” the queen announced as if everyone should heed what she said. “We were caged by the Dragon and then escaped. If we return and call for a meeting, he will see we are not rebels and that we act in good faith.”

“To what end?” Owen said.

“A treaty, of course.”

Mordecai sighed and shook his head. “You want to hand the Son over to the Dragon in return for your daughter. I wouldn't trade this young man for a hundred daughters.”

Owen put a hand on Mordecai's shoulder. “Careful—that's my bride you're talking about.”

Mordecai's face fell. “I meant no offense to you.”

Owen turned back to the queen. “And what does your husband say about this proposal?”

“The king is . . . not well. I am speaking for him.”

“You speak treason against the true King,” Mordecai said.

Like Watcher had read the skies and as Owen himself had pored over books, he now read between the lines of the woman's life. He stepped close and whispered, “You have not always lived in the Lowlands, have you?”

She stepped back, ashen. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“My father's book describes what happened when his children were taken, how it broke his heart. But it also describes the bride as coming from the Highlands. She was not taken, was she? It was you and your husband who were brought here.”

She waved and glanced at the servants, plainly speechless.

“Tell the truth,” Owen said. “In your world, an agreement is binding on both parties. That is your way and the way of your people.”

“You're not really a queen?” someone said.

“And the king is not really a king?” another said.

“I must go,” the queen said.

“No!” Owen said. “I know you care about your daughter and want her back. I want what is best for her and for you and your husband. It is my job to mend what is broken. To heal what is sick. To restore that which has been torn apart. And an agreement with the evil one will not accomplish that.”

The woman inched closer, gathering her dress. “If you are the Son—and I am not saying you are—surely you would know that your own father made a treaty. The Dragon told us the King so despaired over the loss of his children that he promised the entire kingdom to the Dragon if he would spare them.”

“Lies!” Mordecai shouted, spitting. “My King would never have promised such a thing.”

“It's not her you don't believe,” Owen said. “The Dragon is the liar and has been from the beginning. Lying is his language. It is true the King made a treaty and swore to keep it. But truth of that agreement will be revealed only at the right time.”

“So you admit to this,” the queen said.

“I admit that my father loves me—and all of you—enough to protect us from the consequences of the treaty. When it is revealed, we will understand. Now, though it feels at times like we're moving through a darkened corridor, we must trust that he is good and that in the end he will make things plain.”

“You are a blind follower,” the queen said, sneering. “You're no royal Son.”

“And you are no queen,” Mordecai muttered. “I only hope your daughter does not take after you.”