“The humans too?”
The beast nodded. “All but the ones who fill the pots. They have to see.”
“What’s in the pots?”
“Liquid fire from below. It’s for the Dragon’s preparation for—” His ears shot up. “Under the cart. Quickly.”
Owen scrambled under and held on as the cart began moving. They had gone only a few yards when something enormous rumbled through the tunnel, shaking the walls and causing a cascade of small rocks. Owen closed his eyes against the falling dirt.
The beast stopped and yelped as something savagely hit him. Owen got the idea that he had to move more quickly or face a more severe beating.
A horrible smell hit Owen, and his mouth dropped open as they passed the intruder’s scaly feet, which appeared several times Owen’s size, as Rachel had warned. Through the slats Owen saw glowing, green eyes and something that dripped on the cart and immediately burned through. Owen had to jerk his head to the side to avoid it.
“He’ll be back looking for you as soon as he sees the web disturbed,” the beast whispered. “Run ahead of me. The Great Hall is on the path that leads down.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Owen said. “What is your name?”
The beast kept walking. “We stopped using names the day we were brought here.”
“Please,” Owen said.
“Call me Burden. I bear the awful knowledge that what I bring will eventually destroy all life as I knew it. Who are you?”
“Call me Friend. I’m here to help you.” He stretched his sword to the eyes of Burden, making the beast recoil. But when Owen spoke gently, Burden held still. There was a slight sizzling, and when Owen moved away, the white was gone and in its place were dark pupils.
“I don’t believe it! I can see!”
“Don’t let anyone know until the time is right,” Owen said.
“And when will that be?”
“When the Day of the Wormling comes and when the Son returns to release the captives and give sight to the blind.”
“But you just—”
A great roar split the air and rushed through, echoing off the walls. Seconds later it was met with the report of another roar, this one deeper and longer.
“The neodim?”
Burden shuddered. “No, just their helpers. Neodim cannot fit into these tunnels. You must hurry.”
“Tell the others that the Day of the Wormling is at hand.”
“What do you seek here?”
“The words to a book buried in the Great Hall.”
“Words that change our destiny?”
“Yes.”
Burden’s eyes watered. “Why risk your life for ones whose lives are over?”
Owen placed his hand gently on Burden. “You are worth much more than you can imagine. One day you will fight with us against the Dragon. One day you will see the deliverance promised by the King.”
“Deliverance from this place?”
Owen drew closer. “Every captive will go free. And even the Dragon will one day kneel before the King.”
Burden shook his head and groaned. “Here they come for you. You have given me sight just in time for me to see the death of our one ray of hope.”
“I will not fail.”
“Then hurry!”
Whoever or whatever the pursuer was, Owen had no time to outrun it, so back under the cart he dived, facing up, holding on desperately. Bouncing along, he felt his lips thawing. It was difficult not to bite at the dead skin—one of his old habits—but somehow with a new identity and a mission of importance, he’d stopped doing such things. He had stood up to the Dragon and his evil companions and had even spoken persuasively to villagers who wanted him dead. And he had done it with authority bestowed by the King.
Burden whispered desperately as he hurried along, “We’ll come to a larger tunnel soon. If the neodim don’t stop us, I’ll take you to the Great Hall.”
Two other beings passed, smacking Burden almost as if only for sport.
“I would give anything to defeat those brutes and destroy this mountain,” he said.
“Patience, Burden,” Owen said. “It will be destroyed but not now.”
Burden stopped. “You aren’t going to release us?”
“Keep moving,” Owen whispered. “First I have to find what I’m looking for. Where are the prisoners?”
“Deeper, harvesting what’s in the jars, and I must be careful. Even a spark reaching the liquid would leave nothing to search for.”
Ahead of them, shadows moved in front of a flickering lightning bug.
“Have there been explosions?”
“Small ones. But still they push us. Now be quiet. We are coming to one of the main caverns.”
The cart bounced, and through the spaces in the slats, Owen noticed bearded workers in sweat-stained shirts digging with long metal picks. They looked worn to exhaustion.
A bug-eyed beast with a whip lashed Burden’s back, seemingly for no other reason than to keep him moving. The newly sighted creature cried out, and it was all Owen could do not to spring out and use his sword.
“’Bout time you got here,” Bug Eye growled. “Any sign of an intruder?”
“Intruder? Who’d be foolish enough to come here and risk being put to work? Just another laborer for you.”
Bug Eye snickered and lashed Burden again. “Keep moving.”
Owen soon realized that these haggard, sweaty men were digging another tunnel. They carefully took the jars from the cart and placed them along the digging line.
“Move along!” the taskmaster yelled, brandishing his whip.
Burden ambled away, heading for a large opening.
When they were safely away, Burden said, “Many of those men will die in the blast. Some are so sick of working here that they throw themselves into the explosions.”
The cart clacked down the wider tunnel. “Can the neodim fit here?” Owen asked.
“Oh yes, and they have been alerted to an intruder by now. They’re no doubt following your path.”
A high-pitched alarm that sounded like a ram’s horn ripped through the tunnel, followed by a terrific explosion. Soil and rocks clattered down, and choking, blinding dust rolled through.
Owen covered his face with his shirt and fought to breathe.
Watcher heard thunder but didn’t see clouds, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong with the Wormling’s mission.
She didn’t sleep well because of her dream of the Dragon chasing her through the forest, fire shooting from his mouth. Another was of vaxors rising from their graves and attacking villagers, gnashing their teeth as they chased children.
The worst was of a procession trudging down the White Mountain, slipping and sliding through the snow. They carried a wooden pallet and on it a body hidden under a cloth shroud. Watcher pulled it off with her teeth, revealing the dirty face of the dead Wormling.
Then a horn sounded, a warning that blew from the east and roused Watcher from her sleep.
Villagers passed Watcher as she hurried into town, pushing children, trying to get them to safety.
“Vaxors!” someone said. “Returning to kill us!”
A man pointed at Watcher. “You and that Wormling got us into this. Where is he when we need him?”
Watcher kept running, and Humphrey joined her, nudging her as they galloped along.
They were met by a runner, a young boy who shouted, “They’re coming quickly, and they have weapons! They’ve gone into a ravine below us.”
“How many?” Watcher said.
“One hundred. Maybe two. I can’t tell because they’re spread into several groups and—” His voice caught and he whispered, “The first group is coming over the ridge.”
To know your enemy is the first step of a warrior,” Mordecai had taught Owen, but Owen was certain he didn’t want to get to know the neodim.
Burden pulled the cart down long, spiraling passages, some so steep that he simply
let the wagon push him. “Bump coming,” he called.
Owen was nearly jostled from underneath. “Thanks for the warning.”
The path flattened, and they entered a cavernous room with a sheer drop on the edge. Water cascaded from a hole in the opposite wall and pooled at the bottom.
“A little farther now,” Burden said.
Owen leaned from the precarious edge of the path, a feeling of power sweeping through him just knowing he still had the Sword of the Wormling.
Darkness blanketed them as they entered another tunnel. “Very steep here—you may want to walk the rest of the way.”
Owen let go, and the cart rolled past him. He felt his way along the wall, noticing that Burden’s groans and grunts had turned into panting.
The farther down they went, the cooler and mustier the air became. Owen became preoccupied with the smell of the liquid that coursed down the walls—it smelled like gasoline—and suddenly there was no sound of his new friend or the cart.
“Burden?” Owen whispered. He felt along the wall with one hand and used his sword to test the path ahead. He saw no more with his eyes open than closed.
A rotting, putrid smell, like the garbage can behind the Blackstone Tavern or a dead animal, hit Owen’s nostrils.
How he wished that was all it was when a snorting growl blew hot breath on the back of his neck.
Watcher moved under the tree of a sentry, who reported from above. “They’re just beyond the knoll,” he whispered. “Coming this way.”
Watcher hid in the bushes. If these were warriors like the others, a few untrained villagers would be no match for them.
She peered out at the invaders and saw spears and wooden pitchforks, along with bare human feet. No red eyes or furry backs or sharpened metal. These were villagers, much like the people in Yodom.
“Hello there,” Watcher said, stepping out.
The men recoiled, taking cover, one putting an arrow into his bow.
“Wait!” someone said. “It’s her!”
The man let the string go limp and put down his bow. Others ventured out.
The leader, a large man with pudgy fingers, squinted at Watcher. “Are you the Watcher of the Wormling?”
She nodded. “Who are you?”
The man knelt and bowed his head. “Treyhol, guard of the three valley towns at the river. News of your fight against the vaxors reached us. We want to join your warring party.”
“We have no warring party,” Watcher said. “How many are in your group?”
“Four companies of fifty. We do not have advanced weapons, but we are ready to join you.”
“How did you hear?” Watcher said.
“News of the Wormling is spreading through the land like wildfire. Where is he?”
“On a mission, but—”
“Did you hear that, men?” Treyhol called. “He prepares to battle the Dragon.”
The men whooped and yelled, and their cries spread to the companies behind them.
“You don’t understand,” Watcher said. “The Wormling does not prepare for war; he is looking for—”
“If it’s all right,” Treyhol said, “we’d like to stay in the village until he returns for battle.”
“You can stay, but the Wormling is not ready—”
“Forward!” the leader yelled.
Owen froze.
Demon flyer? Neodim? One of the bug-eyed minions of the Dragon?
He drew his sword and raked it against the wet wall, the weapon hissing as it met the moisture. Owen lit out as fast as he could go, racing through the tunnel and away from whatever was behind him. At a sharp turn, he fell, and the sword stuck in the wall. He called for it and caught it in the dark, scrambling to his feet as he was chased by what sounded like the freight train that rumbled through his town in the Highlands. The tunnel vibrated, the walls shook, and soil and rocks fell.
Owen saw a pinprick of light ahead and heard squeaky wheels. The point of light grew as Owen hurtled closer and the tunnel flattened. Burden ambled along.
“Watch out!” Owen yelled as he shot past the cart.
“You were wondering what a neodim looked like,” Burden said. “You’re about to find out.”
Burden pulled his cart to the side, the rumbling ceased, and Owen backed up, his sword at his side.
“Stop right there,” Burden whispered.
Owen found himself on the very edge of a precipice. The massive floor of the cavern below stretched to rocks on either side that vaulted like the pipes of a huge organ, majestic and beautiful and somehow full of light.
“Stay where you are, intruder,” something said with a voice so low it shook Owen’s clothes.
With his back still turned, Owen said, “I thought neodim were too stupid to speak.”
“Turn and face me. I want to see you when you die.”
Owen turned to find the entire opening of the tunnel blocked by the massive creature. His legs wobbled, and he stuck his sword in the ground to steady himself.
“First time seeing a neodim?” the mocking creature said.
“Yes, and I hope it will be the last.”
“Mm-hm. I assure you, it will be.” The neodim squatted, then rose to full height, as if limbering up. It towered over Owen. The huge, ugly, black eyes were set on either side of a wolflike head with a large snout and long incisors. Its long hairy arms led to claws as thick and sharp as the Dragon’s talons.
The neodim stood on its hind legs like a bear, tail encrusted with dirt and clay. “Think you’re fast enough to use your sword?”
“I may be small, but I serve the King.”
“I serve the coming king,” the neodim growled. “And soon this Great Hall will launch his sovereign rule.”
“Why here?”
“So many questions,” the neodim said. “And so little time for answers.”
“It’s just like the Dragon to use this wretched place.”
A howl pierced the chamber, and another neodim emerged from a tunnel in the floor below and glared up at Owen.
“The Dragon will begin the cleansing right here. The mountain will open, and he will descend, and with a blast of his breath, he will ignite the consuming fire.”
Owen smirked. “Sounds like it will consume you as well. You and your brother down there.”
Three more neodim appeared below, waiting, prowling, studying Owen.
Owen caught a glance from Burden. The animal moved slightly, revealing a smaller tunnel, one the neodim was too big to enter. But if Owen escaped, what would the neodim do to Burden?
“Throw him down!” a neodim called. The four circled and howled, grinding their teeth.
The neodim near Owen opened its mouth, and a red tongue protruded, the monster’s lips foaming white. The Slimesees had given him the same look before Owen sent it reeling.
“ ‘Listen to the King and obey him,’ ” Owen said, “ ‘for this is the way of wisdom.’ ”
The neodim lunged at Owen, who raised his sword. The neodim roared and swatted it out of Owen’s hand, and it clanged down the side of the rock wall.
“Sword!” Owen yelled.
It returned as the neodim lunged again. Owen ducked and rolled, his foot slipping over the edge. As the monster charged, muscles rippling, Owen drove the sword into its shoulder, and blood gushed.
Owen tiptoed along the edge of the chasm. The other neodim jumped and roared below. One wrong step and he’d fall into their clutches. The wounded neodim was on him quickly, making Owen teeter on the edge. The only way back was blocked by the neodim.
The beast spread its claws and stood at full height. “You will regret coming here, Wormling!”
Owen swung his sword over his head with both hands and threw it at the heart of the beast, but the neodim dodged it, the weapon clanking off the rock wall behind him.
With a sudden thump from behind, courtesy of Burden, the beast howled and lurched toward Owen, out of control. Owen dodged as the neodim stuck its claws into the rock
, desperately trying to regain its balance. Owen quickly nudged it over the edge, and with a crash and shudder of earth, it landed and lay motionless.
“Quickly, through here,” Burden said. “The others are ascending.”
Watcher didn’t know which was worse: a horde of vaxors descending on the camp or all the amateur fighters joining them from the surrounding valleys. Who would feed them and where they would sleep?
When a hunting party returned with jargid and made cooking fires in makeshift pits, the villagers complained of the smoke and noise.
Concerned parents cast scornful eyes at these fighters—many of whom were young and meant no harm, but their mere presence seemed threatening.
Soon the blame fell on the Wormling. He was the one, so the fighters believed, who had single-handedly killed the vaxors and brought down countless demon and scythe flyers. Watcher tried to explain, but the anger of the villagers would not be quelled. How could she and the Wormling have known that their search for the Son would stir up so many villagers?
“This was your plan all along,” Sideburns said to Watcher. “After all those years waiting and watching, you desire the credit!”
“I desire only to serve the Wormling, thereby serving the King.”
Finally the Scribe hobbled before the group. Watcher could tell the villagers revered him, although it was clear that some still found it hard to believe he had regained his mind. His words fell over them like soft rain. “These friends, the fighters, have come to keep a vigil for the Wormling. The least we can do is welcome them and thank them. If the vaxors return, they will be sorry.”
The Scribe turned to the army. “And you will be considerate of our customs and our people. We will share food and provisions. You will wash daily and not influence our children.
“Finally, I say, whoever fights our enemy is my friend. And whoever means to slay the Dragon is my brother.”
Thank you for what you did, Burden,” Owen said when they stopped to rest. “Your push sent him over the cliff. I just helped.”
The Changeling Page 10
