The Changeling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Owen caught the sizzling sword with a hand wrapped in a jargid skin and stood at the top of the hill.

  The vaxor leader whooped a war cry, and those not burning or running away started up the hill.

  “You set a trap, Wormling!” the leader shouted. “But you have walked into ours.”

  The vaxors brandished their weapons and strained to get at Owen. But just as they drew within striking distance, he stepped back, raised his sword, and brought it down on a strand of rope tightly fastened to a log. The snap of the severed rope triggered a landslide of logs that barreled down the hill, followed by a cascade of rocks the children had gathered.

  The vaxors turned and raced back down the hill, but they were no match for the logs and rocks that flooded over them. Other than a few lucky stragglers who had escaped the edges of the avalanche, only the vaxor commander remained upright. He had deftly danced to his right when the onslaught began. Now he raised his ax and charged up the hill.

  On cue, the villagers—children bearing rocks, parents carrying pitchforks and spears—rose up as one from behind Owen and rushed the vaxor.

  As if staring down a tidal wave, the commander slid to a stop and lowered his ax, then raised it quickly to block rocks and projectiles. He snarled and roared at the crowd.

  When the volley subsided, he looked around. His troops lay dead or dying. His eyes blazed. “You will pay for this, Wormling!” He scampered down the ridge, over logs and boulders and dead comrades, disappearing into the golden horizon.

  * * *

  The villagers pulled bodies from the rubble and buried them—a grim task for even the strong of stomach. They found some vaxors alive, and Owen used his sword to try and heal them, but it did not work. He ordered the villagers to release the injured.

  “Why don’t we kill them?” Sideburns said. “If we let them go, we’ll just have to fight them another time.”

  “The Book of the King instructs, ‘Heap loads of kindness on your enemy so that in the end his heart might be changed.’ ”

  “Surely you don’t think these vaxors will ever serve the King.”

  Owen smiled. “The only vaxors without hope are those we buried. As long as there is breath, and as long as the King is in charge, everyone has hope. They’re loyal to the Dragon because they believe they have no choice. The King’s love will constrain them.”

  Sideburns stroked his chin and mumbled, “We heard rumors of a Changeling. A stark-raving madman regains his mind. Vaxors attack innocents. And you help us defeat a foe who would have easily wiped out the village. You are the Wormling.”

  “I am here to follow the King’s orders. And my task is to find his Son so that all who wish to be free shall be.”

  Sideburns knelt before Owen, but Owen reached for him. “Do not bow to me; bow only to the King or his Son.”

  When all the villagers had gathered, Owen told them he was leaving. The very ones who had called him a spy and traitor now protested.

  “The King’s mission motivates me,” Owen said. “But I will return. I’m leaving Watcher and Humphrey to protect you. I can’t promise more vaxors won’t return, but I can tell you that they will never forget the village of Yodom.”

  It had been Watcher who suggested they use the fiery liquid from the cave, ignited by the Wormling’s sword heated in the fire. She had observed the children playing with rocks and, with Humphrey’s help, moved the logs into position.

  Still, Watcher seemed glum as Owen led her to the home of the Scribe. When he told the man his intentions, the Scribe clawed through his old clothes and gave Owen a pair of shoes with sharpened spikes, along with a heavy coat and pants.

  “These were my son’s. I would be honored if you would wear them on your journey.”

  “I’ve prepared food and water for your climb,” Rachel said. “Remember to drink plenty. The altitude will sap your strength.”

  Owen climbed down and bade farewell to Humphrey, and the horse nuzzled his shoulder.

  Watcher had moved a few yards away and stood alone on the path. “I don’t like that you’re going alone,” she whispered. “I hate saying good-bye.”

  “We’re not saying good-bye.” Owen reached inside his shirt pocket. “I want you to look after someone for me.”

  Mucker smiled through shattered teeth and rested on Watcher’s back.

  “I’m afraid it’s too cold up there for him.”

  “I’ll guard him with my life.”

  * * *

  Watcher sadly walked the Wormling to the edge of the snow pack, several hundred feet above the village, where a long stretch of ice lay before him. She looked up at the mountain and its twisting, blinding whiteness. Fog enshrouded the top.

  “Be aware of a gust of hot air,” Watcher said. “The demon flyers make slight squeaks. You can hide in the snow. And if it’s a scythe flyer—”

  The Wormling held up a hand. “I’ll be fine.”

  Watcher stayed until the Wormling became a dot on the horizon, wiping a tear from her face.

  Owen sank deep in the snow in places, his boots cracking ice in others. The first day he navigated the icefall—a long, shifting glacier valley—and by evening was exhausted. No way could he travel after dark, for the path, where there was one, proved narrow and treacherous.

  He found a small indentation in the mountain and cut blocks of snow with his sword to fashion an igloo to block the wind. He carried no tent, but he had a supply of jargid skins to put beneath and over him.

  As darkness descended, he settled in, eating some of the food Rachel had prepared. He drank water and refilled his carrier with snow so it would melt, then burrowed deep in the jargid skins.

  As Owen drifted off, flashes of his life passed before his mind: his teacher Mrs. Rothem, the bookstore, his friend Constance. . . .

  Owen sat up. Watcher had always reminded him of someone, and now it dawned on him. Constance. Her constant talking and analyzing and questioning. Even their voices sounded alike. He would have to tell Watcher when he returned.

  If he returned.

  Curled up here, his feet like blocks of ice, he wondered if he could accomplish this task. Just getting to the top of the mountain would be a first. And how would he elude the neodim?

  Part of him couldn’t wait to see one. Another part never wanted to see another malformed beast concocted by the Dragon.

  A frigid wind invaded, and Owen buried his head beneath the skins, grateful that the curing process eliminated the horrible jargid odor. Again, as he drifted, his thoughts became a jumble of memories, finally alighting on a passage from The Book of the King.

  When I rise in the morning and go to sleep at night, I will think of you, O King. For you are great and powerful and majestic and full of splendor. The entire kingdom is yours. Truly you are lifted high above everything.

  Watcher stationed sentries on the outskirts of the village and made sure they had ram’s horns to warn of an attack. She stared at the mountain, wondering how far the Wormling had climbed.

  The day he left, a stiff wind had blown from the mountain, signaling the end of warm weather. All Watcher could think was, If it’s this cold down here, how cold is it up there?

  She played a rock game with the children, helping replace rocks that had plunged down the hillside. She let the flock shearer trim her face fur but, with winter coming, not any from her body.

  Watcher also spent time at the Scribe’s home—pacing at the base of the tree, listening to the laughter and soft voices above. When the Scribe spotted her, he insisted she make her way up on a contraption he had devised.

  Moments later Watcher scanned the room, realizing that Rachel must have tidied up. The Wormling had described it as a mess.

  The Scribe and Rachel asked Watcher question after question, going on about her life in the Valley of Shoam, her family, the attack of Dreadwart, and her travels with the Wormling. Rachel made dinner, and they talked long into the night. Watcher often found her mind drifting to the Wormling, wondering w
here he was on the mountain, whether he was warm, and if any demon flyers had passed.

  Mucker slept deep in the fur on her back. She would leave him in the Scribe’s home when she went outside so he could enjoy the warmth of the fire.

  Suddenly the Scribe put a hand to his head and motioned for Rachel. “Another spell. It feels as if the Dragon is near and wants to drag me back to his lair.”

  Rachel made him lie down, but the man would not be comforted.

  Watcher moved closer. “When your mind is clouded, remember this: ‘Whatever is genuine, whatever is good, whatever is correct and clean, whatever your mind comes to rest on that is beautiful or brilliant—anything that is admirable or commendable—these are the things you should think about.’ ”

  Like a man who hears beautiful music for the first time, the Scribe brightened and his eyes twinkled. Even Rachel seemed transformed by the words.

  “How did you remember such a wonderful passage?” the Scribe said.

  “The Wormling often read from The Book of the King. Some passages he repeated again and again.”

  “So, like the others, you do not read?” he said.

  Watcher nodded. “The Wormling . . .” Each time she said his name it stabbed her heart. She missed him terribly and felt she was letting him down by staying behind. “He was teaching me, but it’s been some time now. I suppose I’ll never learn.”

  The Scribe stood and grabbed parchment and a quill. “Now, slowly repeat what you just told me.”

  Watcher was fascinated with the writing process. The letters looked different from the ones the Wormling wrote in the sand. These were polished—flowing and curvy—but when she recognized familiar letters, she clapped her front hooves.

  Watcher studied carefully as she continued reciting, Mucker burrowing closer to her skin, gaining strength with each word.

  On the second day, Owen stepped carefully, digging his spikes in as far as he could, ascending the hazardous ledges. By the end of the day, his breathing labored in the thin air, and his fingers, toes, nose, and ears were numb. He looked for a safe place to sleep. Finding none, he kept climbing, the moon rising over his back, casting shadows on the ice.

  When he reached a dense fog and the moon disappeared, he knew he was in trouble. He desperately needed rest. His arms and legs ached, and his stomach rumbled.

  He recited from The Book of the King, missing Mucker but knowing his little friend could have never survived this cold.

  Close to midnight, Owen found a small ledge with two sticks jutting out. He wedged inside, draping jargid skins over his face. He ate a few bites of jargid jerky but found his water frozen. He licked the ice to get a few drops before falling asleep.

  * * *

  Owen awoke so cold that he couldn’t feel his fingers. And when the wind whipped a jargid skin off his face and sent it whirling away, he looked into the sharp teeth of a storm that had come up during the night and bore down on him like a bull. Owen feared he could be sucked from his hiding place by the stinging snow and howling wind.

  Owen was terrified by his loss of perspective. He had awakened to a world of white, a world without up or down. He didn’t dare move.

  Yet he still believed.

  Believed the King had sent him here.

  Believed the King had a plan.

  Believed the Son was alive and would defeat the Dragon.

  Believed the two worlds would be united.

  And, most importantly, Owen believed that the small life he had led in the Highlands—the one cooped up with books in the back room of a musty old bookstore, afraid of the people around him and even his own shadow—had, in a strange way, prepared him for what he was about to face.

  He believed there was something special about him and that the King not only recognized this but also celebrated it. Back at the bookstore, Owen had tried to simply blend in, to not bother anyone. Now he wanted more—not in a selfish way but in a good way, desiring that his life and the lives of those around him would be enhanced. He aspired to something more.

  Owen reached with his tongue to catch snow and let it drip down his throat, but that only made him colder. Finally, around noon, he managed to open his backpack with stiff fingers and pull out another strip of jerky. The food warmed his stomach and made him feel like he could go on. But still the storm raged, and he had to stay put.

  He knew from The Book of the King that no matter what was happening, no matter how bad the situation or the fight or the storm, a follower of the King could enjoy peace of heart and mind that could not be understood.

  And so, as Owen lay shivering, lips chapped, body numb, he simply uttered, “Peace. Be still.”

  Something about the Scribe energized Watcher’s desire to learn. He was a good and patient teacher who rewarded her with smiles and winks.

  Still, she couldn’t stop thinking of the Wormling. Humphrey found her after each of his romps with the children, but kind and gentle as he was, not even he could replace her friend.

  It had been three days since the Wormling had left, and she could see the storm raging on the mountain. Could the Dragon have created it, knowing the Wormling’s mission?

  Watcher closed her eyes. Protect him, O King, and bring him back. Not for my sake only nor for the sake of the people only but for the sake of your Son and your plan.

  When she looked up, something swirled above her, finally coming to rest on a patch of snow. She loped to it, ice stinging her legs, and reached a jargid pelt, cut just so. Watcher gasped. It was one the Wormling had taken with him.

  Power surged through Owen, warming him like hot chocolate. The wind still howled, but the snowfall had mostly abated. And he could see again. A hint of blue worked its way through the fog as he crawled out of his jargid skins and stretched. He pulled himself up by grabbing the sticks behind him. On closer inspection, Owen realized these were not sticks but frozen arms. He brushed snow away and discovered a dead man’s bald head.

  Owen’s mind flashed to the pictures of Drushka and her family. He put a hand on the man’s head and grieved.

  A gust of wind came from above, and a scream rang out. A man with long, flowing hair hurtled through the air as if borne by some invisible elevator. He seemed to disappear into the mountain, though Owen could see no opening.

  He set out and focused on each step, every direction jagged and icy, and he could see all the way down to the valley. He secured his pack and chose a steep channel, a small stream cut into the ice. But with his first step, the ice broke with a sickening crack, and Owen plunged to his left, grabbing a chunk of rock jutting from the mountain. He dangled there, a block of ice attached to the spike on his left foot, his right foot stuck in the snow.

  Owen tried swinging his leg up, but the ice block weighed it down. He tried to knock it off, but another crack made him wonder if the entire wall might fall away. His hand cramped, his right leg stiffened, and he had no place to anchor his left leg. Each breath became a wheezing gasp.

  A wing flapped above, and an icy breeze blew through the channel, engulfing him in snow and mist. A squeak made him brace for sharp talons. Some choice. Be plucked from his perch by a demon flyer or plunge to his death.

  Owen was running out of strength, his grip failing. And just when he thought there was nothing more to do but let go, a dark figure floated before him. It couldn’t have been a demon flyer or he wouldn’t have seen it. Was it some other concoction of the Dragon?

  My mind is playing tricks.

  Then Owen heard the voice—the same one that had encouraged him in the Highlands. “Free your foot of ice with the sword, Owen, and use it to move up the channel.”

  How long had it been since he had heard his real name? It both comforted and energized him. He hoped the figure, whoever it was, would be at the mouth of the cave to tell him which way to go if he made it.

  Owen grabbed the sword and dislodged the block of ice, sending it skittering down the channel. He regained his balance and stutter-stepped like a lizard. The
sword smoked as it touched the snow, and Owen gained momentum, finally pulling himself up to the entrance of the cave.

  “Who are you?” Owen whispered. “Help me find the missing chapter.”

  But the strange visitor had disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

  The cavern branched into two paths, both strewn with human bones, and the ceiling dripped with something difficult to determine. The smell was like a mix of scrumhouses and dirty rags at a gas station.

  Owen took the passage to the right, hoping it would lead him to the Great Hall. Rocks vibrated around him, and a deep rumbling swept through the mountain—an explosion? He talked himself out of running back out, and the cavern narrowed into a smaller opening that forked. Owen again stayed to the right.

  A dim light flickered like a torch, but he realized the source was not actual flame but emitted by huge fireflies lolling on the cave walls.

  The tunnel turned sharply to the right and angled down to where the earth grew softer. Something had left tracks an equal distance apart, and the oily-rags smell grew stronger.

  Owen broke through what felt like a thick spiderweb and kept moving. A squeak sent him into the shadows, and when it became louder and more regular, he peeked out and spotted a beast slowly pulling a cart filled with jars. It looked like a donkey, but its head was more apelike with large eyes and teeth.

  Owen stepped out of the shadows and said, “Psst.”

  The beast stopped. “Where did you come from?”

  “Back there. I’m looking for the Great Hall.”

  The beast shook his head. “You are not going to live long, are you?”

  “I hope to.”

  “You came through the web then. The neodim will find it has been breached.” The eyes of the beast were as white as snow.

  “You can’t see, can you?”

  “It’s what they do to you when you enter the White Mountain. Take your sight.”