The Minions of Time

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  These words were not for the Dragon but for Mucker, but that did not stop the Dragon from responding. A yellow-orange streak belched from his hideous mouth and lit the tunnel like fireworks.

  This cyclone of fire engulfed the tunnel, and as it reached Owen, he put his hands over his head and jumped into the smaller opening. He swirled down with the Dragon’s pungent fire behind him.

  Seething and resolved to tear the Wormling limb from limb, the Dragon plunged into the mountain like a ravenous cat that had a mouse by the tail. All his years of striving against the King had led to this moment. He had made promises, signed treaties, negotiated peace, all with one goal in mind: possessing this world, destroying it, and remaking it in his own image. That the Wormling was now taunting him with words of the King only made his anger boil more.

  The pressure in these narrow passages was great, and he scratched and clawed deep into the earth with his talons to propel himself, moving earth and stone. He crashed with the stony crown of his head, butting and ramming himself deeper into the chasm. When he slowed at a narrow point, he took a breath and puffed his body out, breaking through to another level.

  As he plunged, he expected to find neodim bodies. It was reported that the Wormling (with help from the rabble prisoners) had killed several. How they had done this the Dragon didn’t know and didn’t care. The death of weak followers was welcomed. It meant that only the strongest would survive. As for the others, he was glad to see them go.

  He snorted fire into the darkness and searched for the Wormling, sniffing the air. He found a small entrance, a hole that looked like it had been recently dug, and stuck his nose inside. Smelling the creature, he gave another blast of fire.

  Convinced he would not fit inside that small opening, he continued down the larger tunnel, breaking walls and smashing and thrashing until he burst through and stopped near the ledge overlooking the Great Hall. Rock and dirt cascaded, and the Dragon finally saw the decaying bodies of his neodim. He growled in disgust at the Wormling defiantly standing against the far wall of the hall below.

  The Dragon stretched. “Who killed these?”

  “Probably something they ate,” the Wormling said. “Or perhaps they drowned under so much of your kindness.”

  “Insolent tramp!” the Dragon muttered. Speaking as if he has authority. “Who helped you?”

  “I needed no help killing these. They had no real power. True power comes only from the King, and not even you have that kind of power.”

  The Dragon’s throat rattled, and he spread his wings to lift a talon. It was not in his nature to keep his cool when angered, but the Dragon gritted his teeth and cocked his head at the small creature below him. “I have something for you, Wormling. Come out into the open where I can see you.”

  “What could you possibly have that would interest me?”

  Metal clanged and the Wormling looked up.

  “Recognize this?” the Dragon growled.

  “I recognize it as well as you do,” the Wormling said, “judging from that scar on your leg I gave you at the castle.”

  The Dragon spread his wings and lifted from the ledge, flying above the Wormling and swinging the sword back and forth, measuring the distance he would need to throw it and considering whether he should bring the Wormling to his knees and have him beg for his miserable life before it ended.

  “Ironic, don’t you think?” the Dragon said. “Slain by the very sword you were given to kill me.”

  “You’ve planned well,” the Wormling said. “Because if you were to spit fire at me down here—”

  “I don’t spit fire!”

  “—you would kill not only me but also yourself while blowing this whole mountain to the sky.”

  The Dragon hovered midflight. He hadn’t considered this possibility, but he tried hard not to show it to the Wormling.

  “With all the fuel you’ve gathered and with all that’s pooled since the captives were freed, you’d be committing suicide to use fire here. Even more ironic, no? The fire-breathing Dragon killed by the very fire that he spits. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for the good of your followers?”

  The Dragon formulated a new plan on the spot, pleased with himself for thinking it through so quickly.

  “Sword!” the Wormling shouted.

  The hilt of the sword grew hot in the Dragon’s talons, and he released it, then reached to get it back, but it was gone, hurtling through the air toward the Wormling. It appeared the Wormling would be impaled, but just as it reached him, the sharp tip flipped and the handle slapped into the Wormling’s hand.

  The Dragon plunged down, body shaking.

  “Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that,” the Wormling said. “Dragon go boom if you go spit spit.”

  The Dragon sneered. “I promise you, you will be charred beyond recognition.”

  The Wormling put the sword at his side. “The King uses you, though you do not understand it. And I promise you, Dragon, with everything that is within me, you will feel not just the tip of my sword but the entire blade up to the hilt buried deep into your heart.”

  The Dragon’s eyes narrowed. “This is where you die, Wormling. And the world will be reborn.”

  Watcher flew back toward the others on the transport flyer. She had lost her powers, lost her ability to help the Wormling, and still he had accepted her. He valued her for simply being herself. That lightened her heart and at the same time puzzled her. How could this be?

  Watcher landed ahead of the warriors coming from Yodom and managed to alert the archers of her identity before they shot her. The Scribe came out from the crowd in a long, flowing robe. His face had become even healthier with the exercise, and he seemed a different person from the scattered man who had lived in a tree.

  Watcher told him about the clan of Erol awaiting them not far ahead and that Mordecai was with them. “And the Wormling went inside the White Mountain to—”

  The ground trembled, and an explosion rocked the countryside.

  “Look!” someone shouted. “The mountain!”

  The top of the mountain was suddenly simply gone, and an avalanche cascaded.

  A large beast flew above the mountain, wings spread wide.

  “The Dragon,” the Scribe gasped.

  The beast paused as if gathering energy and spewed fire into the newly opened mountain. The inferno was like nothing Watcher had ever seen, and the Dragon toppled backward in the sky as ash and smoke billowed.

  The Dragon regained his position, flapping wildly, watching the conflagration with glee. As if his mission was accomplished, he plunged from the mountain and flew about, roaring and bellowing.

  The Scribe put a hand on Watcher’s back. “Perhaps he didn’t go inside the mountain. Perhaps he—”

  “No,” Watcher said, unable to move. “I saw him. And he could never survive an explosion like that.”

  Constance opened her eyes but couldn’t keep them open. As her eyelids fluttered she was able to make out a dim room with two candles burning on a mantel. A wooden table and two chairs. A loaf of bread. Dusty curtains drawn over a window.

  Her head felt like it was twice its normal size and throbbing, her nose running, and her throat scratchy and raw. Achy and feverish, her body was so chilled her teeth rattled. She wished this were the flu, but she knew better.

  A chair creaked in the corner, and the man with the burned face sat forward in the dim light. Constance tried to sit up but could barely lift her head from the pillow.

  “How do you feel?” The man’s voice was deep and comforting.

  “Nearly dead,” she said. “It would be less painful to sleep and never wake up.” The man brought her a glass of water, but her throat hurt so much she choked on it. “Where am I?”

  “My cottage, a good distance from town. You’re safe.”

  “What were those things? Bees?”

  “Minions from the Dragon,” the man said, staying in the shadows.

  “The beast that chased us a long time
ago in that old house?”

  The man nodded.

  “And what are minions?”

  “They do the bidding of the evil one.” He drew closer, and Constance could see the scars on his face and neck.

  When she looked away, he brought a wooden bowl of strong-smelling salve and dabbed it on her shoulder. Constance lay back on the pillow.

  “This will help draw the poison out. The minions accelerate the life cycle. I’m hoping the one that stung you hadn’t reached full venom yet.”

  “What do you mean? They speed up life?”

  The man lifted one of her hands so she could see it.

  Constance gasped. It looked wrinkled and spotty like her mother’s.

  “The venom ages you too soon.”

  “Were you stung too,” she said, “trying to fight them off?”

  “I am immune.” He gently let down her hand. “Now you must rest. Things will be better after you sleep longer.”

  “You say that as if you do not believe it.”

  “I believe it, but you may not feel the same when the venom takes full effect.”

  “What about my mother?” Constance asked. “What will she think when I don’t come home?”

  The man winced and looked away.

  “What? Has something happened to her?”

  “It is best if you rest. If I were to tell you the truth—”

  “You challenged me with truth before Owen left us. Don’t you remember that night and the things you said?”

  “I do, but in your weakened state I don’t know how much you can handle.”

  “Tell me about my mother.”

  The man lowered his head. “The woman you know as your mother is really just your caretaker. She is not of your blood.”

  “Impossible!” Constance said. “How could she not be my mother?”

  “Things are not always as they seem, child.”

  “If she is not my mother, who is? Is she still alive?”

  “I believe she is. And you will see her again in time.”

  “I don’t dare even leave here with those minions about. Is there a way we can kill them?”

  The man looked pained. “I’m afraid they’ve already been loosed. And the effect on the Highlands will be devastating.”

  “The Highlands?”

  “Your world,” the man said. “We call this the Highlands and the world Owen traveled to the Lowlands.”

  Constance closed her eyes. “I’ve been waiting a long time for him. Will he return?”

  “Much has happened to him, I’m sure, but yes, he will return. Soon. Now rest.”

  In the next room, standing in shadows, this man who was accustomed to regal raiment and having his every need cared for stood alone in nothing more than rags. His home could be called Spartan—another way of saying he had become poor and had very few worldly goods. The long coat that had been his trademark since coming to this small town was gone—burned in some horrible accident.

  With hands clasped behind him and sensing that the visitor he had requested was now in the room, he spoke. “Nicodemus, it has been a long journey for you.”

  “And there is a longer road ahead, my King.”

  “How is he? Does he have the book again?”

  “The good news is that he retrieved it, sire, and he had it with him as he entered the White Mountain. The bad news is that the Dragon followed him and—”

  The man turned on Nicodemus and looked at him with great compassion. “You fear for his life?”

  “O King, he has given of himself in so many ways. I have watched him come to know and love the people and creatures of the Lowlands. In every way he proves himself worthy to be called your Son.”

  “And yet?”

  “And yet I fear he may have given the last full measure in hopes of protecting his companions.”

  The King fell silent a moment. Then, “And what of the Watcher?”

  “She has lost her powers because of an indiscretion, but she is not hurt physically. Mordecai is now with the other warriors.”

  “Mordecai,” the man whispered. He had taken Mordecai in when he was young and eventually charged him with protecting his family. “I always hoped he would return to me. My Son has made that hope a reality.”

  “Not only him, sire, but also the Scribe. His mind has returned, and he thinks clearly because of your words.”

  “What do you think happened to my Son?”

  “The Dragon went inside and was seen a while later destroying the top of the mountain. There was fire, an explosion, and the mountain spewed the gemstones the Dragon has been mining with the help of the people he has imprisoned. Your wife included.”

  The King was heartbroken.

  “Sire, there is no way he could have survived. The explosion blew the top off the mountain.”

  “Was anyone in the countryside killed?”

  “Not that we know of, but it is enough that your Son was a casualty.”

  “Have you forgotten the prophecy?”

  Nicodemus looked at the floor. “I trust in your insight and your will, O King. Who am I to question you?”

  “You questioned whether you should stay with him or follow my orders and let him go alone.”

  “An indiscretion of my own, I’m afraid,” Nicodemus said. “It was not because I don’t trust you but because I distrust the Dragon.”

  The King’s heart ached. “How are they to believe who cannot even read the prophecy or who have not heard my words? If you, who have seen me face-to-face and talked with me, cannot believe, how will they?”

  “I do believe you, O King.” Nicodemus fell to his knees. “And I trust you with my life and with his.”

  The man known as Mr. Page, who we now know is the King, put his hands on Nicodemus’s shoulders. “Happy are those who have not seen me and still believe what I have said. They shall be set free by knowing the truth and shall be partakers of the wholeness the world will soon see.”

  Perhaps, like Nicodemus, you have lost hope for our hero, the one we said you would love from the moment you met him. His genuine heart and depth of courage overcome the fact that few of his friends know these deep qualities. Actually, only one of his friends in the Highlands truly understands the depths of his goodness, and even she does not yet truly comprehend the love of which he is capable.

  But she will in time. A short time.

  To assuage our fears about Owen, we must travel deep inside the earth and follow the chomping and munching of Mucker. Owen’s eyes droop, and his head nods as he is swept along by his friend. Owen has been reading The Book of the King nonstop, devouring it, finding new and deeper meanings with each page, and his furious pace helps speed Mucker along.

  “Though the fire threatens to engulf, you will escape by the words of the Sovereign. Though the enemy seeks to take your life, trust in the King, and he will deliver you.”

  Owen had known the Dragon would have to get far enough away from the blast zone to keep himself from being killed, and it was in those moments of the beast’s ascension that Owen rejoined Mucker in the tunnel and recited several passages one right after another. He had tried to drain all the liquid from the deep caverns but hoped the residual fuel would give the appearance that the Dragon’s plan had worked. There would be a hole in the top of the mountain that would appease the Dragon, and, Owen prayed, no one in the surrounding area would be killed.

  Mucker slowed when Owen quit reading, so he opened the book again.

  “The King gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even young people grow tired, slip, and fall, but any who put their trust in the King will find new power. They will fly on winged creatures. They will move through the night and not be tired. They will not grow faint, though the task ahead is arduous.”

  Owen patted Mucker’s back. “These words are for us, my friend. Let us not grow weary. We will not stop until we are back in the Highlands.”

  The Dragon paced in his lair, snorting and scratching the
underside of his leg. The scar there bothered him now more than ever.

  Even with his armies encamped around the castle and fires burning brightly, something gnawed at him. He should have been elated over the death of the Wormling, dancing in his spacious ballroom, spreading a feast to end all feasts. All that was left was to find another way to destroy the worlds.

  RHM knocked and entered timidly, head down.

  “Bad news?” the Dragon said. “Or did my inspectors discover his bones?”

  “Nothing, sire. Not the sword, not the book or remnants thereof, or even charred bones. My guess is that you vaporized the creature.”

  “There would have been something of him down there,” the Dragon spat. “And why, with all the fuel in the depths of that cavern, was the entire mountain not leveled? Why didn’t the explosion send those gemstones throughout the entire kingdom?”

  A commotion in the hallway drew RHM, who then led a demon flyer inside to see the Dragon.

  “News from the Highlands, sire,” the flyer said, gasping as if he had just flown all the way from there. “The girl who was being watched has disappeared. We heard from a sentinel that someone was inside the bookstore—where the Wormling had been kept.”

  “Inside? Who?”

  “We’re not sure, but it could have been the girl. Someone disturbed the minions, and some were loosed prematurely.”

  “Not all?”

  “No, sire. The others are nearly ready.”

  The Dragon turned to RHM. “Do you see why I am skeptical?”

  “Begging your pardon, sire,” the demon flyer said, “but this was found in the tunnel near the minions’ nest.”

  The creature handed the Dragon a piece of charred cloth. The Dragon sniffed it and let out a roar. “It can’t be him! He is dead!”

  RHM and the flyer shrank back, but the Dragon merely walked to the window and gazed out at his troops. “If there must be war, let it begin before they even suspect it. Ready my troops. We will wipe out the enemy’s army before it ever assembles.”