The Changeling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

Owen nodded. “Some passages lift the heart like nothing else in the world. Others give perspective, let you know that no one is perfect, that all of us make mistakes and are tarnished by our choices.”

  Connor shook his head. “It should be called The Book of Jabber. We need less babbling and more action. If you really believe that book, act. Join us and fight.”

  “No,” Owen said, “that’s the point. The fight is not yours, Connor. The fight is his. And he will win the battle. But we have to align ourselves with his timetable, with his plans.”

  “The King?” Connor said. “I’d say his timetable has already run out, wouldn’t you? He’s left us. And he’s not coming back.”

  “Connor, listen—”

  “No. The King left a long time ago. Turned tail and ran. Left us at the mercy of the Dragon. And we’ve been told all this time that we simply have to wait, that fighting would be futile, that we have no say. Well, I’m not going to just sit and take whatever the Dragon dishes out.” Connor threw his fruit on the floor with a splat. “Enough of my countrymen have been dragged away in service to this beast. If I die, I die. But I will not sit by while more are slaughtered or made slaves.”

  Owen’s heart broke for Connor. With emotion in his voice, he said, “I have met your Queen. Her strength and beauty are great, and though she serves in a lowly place, she has not let that bring her low. I too want to slay every enemy of the King. But this is not the time. It would be suicide to taunt the Dragon now.”

  Connor shook his head. “Your words are well chosen and may stir others, but my father lies under the earth because of those words.”

  Owen sat up. “Many will fight with us. Watcher and I have seen courage from those the King called and touched. But the time is not yet right.”

  Connor moved to the entrance and opened the flap, peering out at the encampment. “When?”

  “You are courageous and determined,” Owen said. “But this battle, unless waged in the strength of the King, will fail.”

  “At least we will die trying.”

  Watcher’s voice rang out. “So you’re really not interested in winning.”

  “You have no idea—”

  “You would rather have a statue in your honor placed on this field than to have true victory.”

  “How dare you!”

  “‘To Connor, the brave,’” Watcher said, pointing a hoof to an imaginary statue. “‘And to those who followed him to their deaths. Hail the courageous leader who fought his own battle.’”

  Connor unsheathed his sword and pressed it against her neck, his hand shaking.

  Owen gently pushed the sword away.

  “Don’t you see?” Watcher said. “This is what the Dragon wants. He divides us so that he can conquer. If we unite, at the right time, we’ll win.”

  Connor sat and sighed. “See how blindly you follow without asking questions?”

  “I have questions,” Owen said, “but my faith in the King and his Son outweighs my doubts.”

  Connor sneered. “I pity you.”

  While Owen retrieved his toasty shoes and socks, Watcher found a stable boy who knew the directions to the village of Vezlev.

  “I’m from Yuhrmer,” the boy said, “but I had to go through Vezlev to get here. Why are you going there?”

  Watcher explained.

  “I have heard of such a man, but he does not live in Vezlev. His home is in Yodom.”

  Watcher nodded excitedly as she listened to the directions to the small village. She couldn’t wait to tell the Wormling what she’d learned, but the boy seemed to want to talk.

  “I really liked how you and the Wormling fought,” the lad said. “I wish I could go with you. I mean, I want to fight the Dragon and see his demon flyers fall too.”

  “One day you may be a warrior, son,” Watcher said, “but now your job is tending horses. An army cannot win without strong animals, you know.”

  “I would rather fight like you and the Wormling.”

  “Each task is important. Do you think being a Watcher was much fun, especially all those years waiting?”

  He grinned. “That would be even more boring than caring for horses.”

  “We are nothing on our own—none of us. But the King’s authority makes us warriors. The Book of the King says, ‘Whoever is faithful in a little will be given much more.’ ”

  The boy beamed. “Would the Wormling accept a gift?”

  “We are not able to carry much.”

  “This would help. I was given a colt some time ago, but he’s grown too large for me to ride. I’m sure the Wormling could use him.”

  Watcher smiled. How many times had she wished the Wormling could walk as fast and long as she? But how could they accept such a gift? “It is a wonderful gesture, but we could not—”

  “I insist,” the boy said, untying the horse. It had patches of brown and white and a gentle face. “My contribution to the cause.”

  * * *

  Owen was happy to hear the news about the Scribe’s whereabouts, but he eyed the horse warily. He had learned to swim by being thrown into the water by Mordecai, and he supposed he could learn to ride simply by getting on. At first it felt awkward, the horse shifting back and forth, but with Watcher’s instructions and the fact that the horse seemed to sense Owen’s unease, he rode toward the sunrise.

  No longer concerned about demon flyers, since they figured to be more interested in Connor’s army, Owen and Watcher moved into the open, down to the river that ran past the battle line. They followed to an arroyo, then north toward the White Mountain.

  “You sure about these directions?” Owen said.

  “The stable boy seemed quite sure,” Watcher said.

  They had traveled only an hour when black clouds rolled in behind them. Owen suggested they find shelter, but Watcher said, “Those are not storm clouds.”

  “There’s lightning behind us. Of course it’s a storm.”

  “No,” Watcher said. “The battle has begun.”

  Owen turned around and urged his horse faster, hanging on tight to the reins. Watcher ran ahead, dust swirling behind her hooves. She turned to check on him, but Owen waved her on.

  She disappeared over the horizon, then returned less than half an hour later, panting. “Scythe flyers descending . . . some have fallen . . . and demon flyers, too!”

  “Killed?” Owen said.

  “I think so. . . .” Watcher pointed toward the White Mountain. “Also a small band of men heading north.” She turned and hurried back over the hill.

  Owen’s mind raced. Had he misread the prophecy? Should he have helped this group and defeated some of the Dragon’s warriors?

  Owen dismounted at the first dead scythe flyer, whose head was buried in the earth. He marveled at the thickness of the skin and sharpness of the tail. He couldn’t understand how Connor and his men had killed it until he found a stake sticking in its belly.

  He tied his horse to a tree and hurried toward the field. A weird contraption—a catapult with a wooden pole attached to the front—sat near the front line. Watcher explained that Connor had an exploding spear that had brought down several scythe flyers and scared off the demon flyers.

  “Any warriors hurt?”

  Watcher nodded. “In those tents. They put warriors in front to draw the flyers in, then shot them as they passed.”

  Owen hurried past a man shouting for reinforcements.

  “Are you here to join us, Wormling?” the man asked.

  Owen didn’t answer. He continued running for the tents. What he saw there turned his stomach. Some of the men were missing arms or legs. He couldn’t believe Connor had used them as bait.

  A man in a white shirt moved among them, checking wounds.

  Owen approached, drawing his sword.

  “These will live,” White Shirt said. “Don’t end their suffering. The next tent has men who could be put out of their misery.”

  Owen went from cot to cot, touching deep gashes with the blade, h
ealing them instantly. Some had been wounded too long and he couldn’t help, but many stood, restored.

  Watcher rushed inside and told Owen to come quickly. He finished reattaching an arm, and the man hugged him with both hands, joyous. “Thank you, Wormling.”

  Outside, Watcher said, “Hurry to the field.”

  Owen followed her, stepping over trenches where scythe flyers had dragged their tails several feet deep. At the top of a knoll, the young boy who had given Owen his horse lay.

  Owen knelt. “What are you doing out here in the open?”

  “I wanted to help. When the scythe flyers saw me, they had to get extra close to the ground.”

  Owen examined the boy’s stomach. “How long have you been here?”

  “They said there was no hope.”

  Owen held his sword to the wound. But as with Qwamay, it was no use. He had been wounded too long without the Sword’s power. Owen removed his tunic and placed it under the boy’s head.

  “I’m scared to die, Wormling, sir,” the boy said, choking.

  “Do not be afraid,” Owen said, grasping his hand. “This is not the end. We who are faithful to the King will meet again.”

  “How do you know? How can you be sure?”

  “ ‘There is coming a time of renewal and rebirth. Those who die will live again and serve the King with gladness.’ ”

  The boy’s hand fell limp.

  All Owen’s life he had been moved by the plight of those younger than himself. Children bullied, treated unkindly by teachers, insulted by shop owners. But never had he been so incensed by another’s pain.

  The dark sky reminded him of the Dragon’s pursuit—his hideous face twisted with evil. He had caused this death, and that truth burned in Owen’s heart. But it was also Connor who had allowed the innocent boy to join them.

  Owen gritted his teeth and strode back toward the front line.

  Where is Connor?” Owen yelled, voice full of emotion.

  Those on the front line simply looked at him with the vacant eyes of the defeated. Gunnar pushed through and stood by one of the strange weapons.

  “Wounded?” Owen said. “Killed?”

  Gunnar’s jaw was set. “Connor is not here.”

  “Where then?”

  Watcher screamed, “Incoming!”

  The fighters took their places, some moving into the field as decoys while others manned the weapons.

  “Tell us when the invisibles are near, Watcher,” Gunnar said. “Please.”

  She closed her eyes, the hair on her back standing straight, a foreleg toward the sky. “There. Three in the lead—one in front, two close behind.”

  “And four scythe flyers,” Owen said. “We’re no match for these.”

  “Stand your ground, Wormling,” Gunnar said.

  “You’ll get more of your men killed,” Owen said. “Why isn’t Connor here if he’s so committed to this fight?”

  “Almost here,” Watcher said, still pointing.

  Owen held his sword behind his head.

  “Now!” Watcher shouted.

  Something like fireworks exploded beside Owen, and three sharpened poles hurtled into the air like missiles.

  “They’re too high!” someone shouted. “They’re not attacking!”

  The poles reached their apexes, then fell harmlessly as the scythe flyers flew around them.

  “Why aren’t they attacking?” Watcher said.

  Owen sheathed his sword. “They’re after something else.” He turned to Gunnar. “Where is Connor?”

  With a sheepish look, Gunnar said, “His plan was to stage this battle, then steal away to the White Mountain to rescue our friends. Several from our group have been taken there—”

  “This was all a show? a ruse to get them to attack?” Owen looked back to where the stable boy lay, then to the tents of the wounded. “He would have given up all these? And Watcher and me?”

  “His wife was among those taken. We didn’t anticipate this many deaths.”

  The demon flyers screeched in the distance; then the scythe flyers plummeted. They were mere specks on the horizon, but Owen could see them picking people from the ground and carrying them toward the White Mountain.

  “Gather your wounded, Gunnar, and get them to safety. Those flyers will return. And you’ll be lucky if they don’t make slaves of the lot of you.”

  To Owen’s surprise, that evening he found Watcher standing over the stable boy’s grave, whispering tearfully, “‘May the King keep you and cause his face to shine upon you and give you peace in the valley of eternity.’”

  “Where did you learn that?” Owen said.

  “Bardig,” she said. “Long ago. He told me the King himself grieves every death, but special in his sight is a child. How can the Dragon delight in the death of one so young?”

  Owen, who realized he had grown since coming to the Lowlands, bent to face Watcher. “You encountered the Dragon and lived to tell about it. You know he will stop at nothing to overthrow the King.”

  “Which may happen.”

  “Don’t even think that.”

  Watcher shuddered. “But the Dragon and the Changeling act as if the King is dead.”

  “Watcher, trust me. With everything in me I know the King lives.”

  “And his Son?”

  Owen looked away.

  “See? There is doubt even in you.”

  “I worry about the Son. But the way the Dragon put a decoy in the dungeon and rewarded Qwamay for posing as the Son leads me to believe the true Son is alive.”

  Watcher traced something in the dirt, then looked up. “And if we never find him?”

  “We will.”

  “Why can’t the King help us? Why must we travel so far and struggle for every morsel of hope?”

  “I have asked the same. Why did I have to come here? Why should a Wormling be employed in this search at all? Why not just let the King’s Son rise and fight? But it has been worth it to spend time in The Book of the King and learn about the King’s heart. He is not far from us, Watcher. I believe he is closer than we think. And victory is not far either.”

  Gunnar and a few of his men interrupted them, thrusting their swords deep into the earth. “We have decided to attempt a rescue,” Gunnar said. “Come and bring your Watcher. She can warn us of impending attacks.”

  Owen pursed his lips. “I tried to talk Connor out of this. I didn’t know it was a rescue attempt. Why he didn’t tell me is a mystery—”

  “He didn’t trust you,” Gunnar said. “He blames you for what happened to his father.”

  Owen nodded. “Perhaps one day he’ll know the truth. Right now, Watcher and I must continue our quest for the Son.”

  “You don’t care that Connor could be killed?”

  “He made his choice. After we’ve found the Son, we can try to rescue Connor from the White Mountain or wherever the Dragon takes him. I pray he’s not killed.”

  Gunnar shook his head. “Praying is just words. Action counts.”

  “Action without the blessing of the King is mere exercise.” Owen drew closer. “Align yourself with him, yield your strength to his, and he will use you. That’s the best way to help your people and Connor.”

  “Tempting,” Gunnar said. “But you leave before a fight is finished. You abandon people and allow them to die. We will try to rescue Connor. If we die, at least we tried.”

  “I wish you well,” Owen said. “And as I say, I will be the first to help once we have found the Son.”

  Gunnar spat, “Don’t bother.”

  Getting past the White Mountain was difficult, not only because of the terrain but also because Owen felt a tug to help Gunnar.

  Watcher asked Owen why saving the children of Erol in the Badlands was any different from this.

  “The children were innocent. They didn’t choose to go to the mines.”

  “Neither did Connor’s wife and the others. Connor was only trying to do what you did for Erol’s clan.”

>   “You argue well,” Owen said. “I hate seeing people in such pain, but the real way to help them—and everyone in the Lowlands—is to find the Son and follow the King’s words.”

  * * *

  Over the next two days, Watcher warned Owen any time invisible scouts drew near. Owen dutifully followed her to safety, but he wished he could slice those pesky creatures in two.

  Finally, after walking all night, they reached a range overlooking the village of Yuhrmer.

  “Why stop here?” Owen said. “The Scribe lives in Yodom.”

  “I thought we might eat here and rest.”

  “How much farther to Yodom?”

  Watcher pointed. “Another night’s journey. But, Wormling, this is also where the woman lives. The one whose picture is in your backpack.”

  Owen recalled Watcher having seen the picture of his mother. “I thought you barely traveled from your mountain. How would you have seen this woman?”

  Watcher smiled. “Before the Dragon forbade travel, Bardig took me with him when I was a youngling. There was a fair in Zior. People set up booths and tents where they sold the most wonderful fruit and plants and baked goods. And there were games that kept me laughing, just watching the old ones try to win.”

  “A carnival,” Owen said. “That’s what we call that in the Highlands.”

  “Anyway, one booth from Yuhrmer bore the most beautiful bedcovers I had ever seen. Delicate cloth so soft and silky that I didn’t think they would even let me touch it. But a kind lady there held it up to my face.”

  “The lady who looks like my mother?”

  Watcher nodded.

  * * *

  When Owen and Watcher arrived in Yuhrmer, Owen noticed that most of the homes were made of logs, topped with thatched roofs. One, perched slightly above the village, was made of stone, and its wide chimney belched smoke. The pleasing aroma drifting down the hillside reminded Owen of the bakery near his house.

  As often happens in small towns, children were the first to meet the strangers, leaving a game played with sticks and a crude ball. The children in Owen’s world were driven to soccer practice wearing expensive shoes and played with the best equipment. These kids slapped at a roll of yarn and scurried in the dirt with bare feet. Still they giggled and seemed to be having just as much fun.