“I don’t understand.”
“Making something out of nothing. Bringing life to a book.” He chuckled. “And the King was right. The mistakes actually made it all the more glorious when it was done, because we knew it was perfect.”
“And the King knew I would make mistakes?”
“Knew and planned for them. And the next leg of your journey may be the most important, for the king of the west has a daughter who is betrothed to the Son.”
“Of course!” Owen said. “Why didn’t I think of it? Maybe the Son is already there. Maybe that’s where he’s hiding, and that’s why the Dragon—”
Owen flew toward the door. “I have to find this castle. The Dragon may be going to destroy the Son.”
“You’ll need this,” the Scribe said, handing him the metal scroll. On the back was a map to the Castle on the Moor.
“The King thought of everything,” Owen said.
Connor was planning a siege on the vaxors. Owen could not reason with him and only hoped he would be alive when Owen returned with the Son.
The young, white-haired boy rode Humphrey as Owen and Watcher headed back to Yuhrmer. He seemed glad to escape the mountain and be back in fresh air. Though his hands were gnarled from the workrooms, he giggled like a normal boy.
“Are you going to tell him before we get there?” Watcher whispered.
Owen shook his head. “I don’t know how. Could he possibly understand that he has a mother waiting for him?”
The villagers rushed to welcome them, many of the children asking Owen about the dead iskek they had found in the forest. Several of the mothers recognized the boy and hugged him tight, though they had a hard time pulling him from the back of Humphrey; he was having such a fun ride. The boy looked overwhelmed at the attention.
When they brought him to Drushka’s home, he sniffed the air and squinted. “I remember this smell,” he said. “Bread.”
The door opened, and Drushka looked down, hands on hips, as if he were a nuisance. Then a look came over her that Owen would never forget—joy at his return, sadness at the years lost.
Drushka lifted the boy and looked him full in the face, smelled his hair, inspected his hands. She hugged him and spun him, then led him inside. Moments later she rushed back out, dancing and laughing. The boy couldn’t stop talking, telling her all that had happened.
Finally letting a friend take the boy by the hand, Drushka approached Owen. “Words can’t express . . .”
“Your joy makes it worth everything.” Then he whispered, “I have less encouraging news about your husband. I believe he was on his way to find your son but did not survive the climb.”
Drushka’s eyes left him, and she turned partly away.
Owen put a hand on her shoulder. “His act was selfless and brave. I only wish I could bring him back as well.”
Drushka loaded Owen and Watcher with enough bread and cakes to feed an army. Watcher munched on a pastry, and Humphrey couldn’t get enough of playing with the children.
Soon it turned dark, and the three were again on their way. As they reached the crest above the town, Owen turned back to look at the stone house. Drushka stood in the doorway, watching her son chase two new friends.
“Why do you stop?” Watcher said.
Owen sighed. “Dreaming, I suppose.”
Traveling at night again, Owen rode Humphrey, ducking limbs, rolling the words of the missing chapter through his mind. It was his lone connection now with The Book of the King. His focus had been the section that spoke of the king of the west and the task ahead, but there were other encouraging words.
A man with faithful friends is blessed beyond measure. It is better to go to battle with friends than with hired soldiers.
Watcher had endless questions about the White Mountain and what Owen had seen. When Owen described the neodim and the movals, Watcher lowered her ears and asked him to stop. He couldn’t help but think she was a little jealous of Burden. Owen had left him in Yodom to help the Scribe and be a sentry. “From blindness to watchman. That is a miracle!” Owen said.
As the days grew colder, it became more difficult to travel at night. Owen could see his breath as they walked, and he shivered against the cold and wetness. During the day they would find a cave or stay hidden in a thicket, sleeping or studying the map.
Watcher sensed invisibles, but they seemed less intense, which concerned Owen. It seemed they should be increasing. Could they have attacked his friends in Yodom? He recalled a passage from The Book of the King:
Continue to travel paths that are straight and turn neither to the left or the right. The King has prepared them for you.
Late one night, Owen was nodding off on Humphrey’s back as a cold rain fell. Owen ran a hand through his hair and shook the water out. Lightning flashed, and a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
They had come to a low area with moss hanging from giant trees and muddy bogs surrounding them. Owen heard movement in the water, and as a precaution against attack, he made Watcher walk single file in front of Humphrey.
The farther they traveled, the more difficult it became to find a hiding place during the day. Smelly swamps dotted the countryside. Watcher suggested they just keep going, that there was little demon flyer activity and the trees prevented them from being seen.
But Owen would not be lulled into complacency. “When we least expect it, they can hit us.”
Owen thought he heard something wafting over the wet breeze and had Watcher and Humphrey stop. “There it is again,” Owen said, pulling Humphrey’s reins. “Do you hear it?”
“I hear crickets and frogs,” Watcher said. “And rain.”
Humphrey shifted under Owen.
“I could have sworn I heard something,” Owen said. “Almost like singing.”
They walked until first light showed orange and deep blue on the horizon. Just as Owen was about to suggest they find a place to rest for the day, he heard it again.
This time, Watcher stopped and her ears twitched. “It sounds like a lament.”
“I thought singing was outlawed,” Owen said.
The voice faded, and they continued along a narrowing path, dark water on either side lapping at the edges. From Owen’s judgment of the map, they were less than a day from the Castle on the Moor.
They came to a low, jagged stone wall that ran along the edge of the water. A plaintive sound came over the water.
“Sunshine flees; it’s cold today,
Cold and wet, they’ve gone away.
Gone from this world, away from me.
Away, away, away from me.”
The voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t until lightning flashed and he saw the face that Owen gasped.
“Erol,” he whispered.
Owen slipped down from Humphrey and approached Erol.
“Don’t bother coming here,” Erol said. He looked sad and weary, eyes red, shoulders sagging. “It will all be over shortly.”
“What do you mean?” Owen said, stepping into the bog.
“I wouldn’t suggest that. There are gators in these waters. That’s what I’m waiting for.”
Owen stepped back. “You want to be eaten?”
“Not so much that I want to be as that I’ve lost any reason not to be. I’ve lost everything, Wormling. My only song is a dirge for my children, my wife, and my clan.”
Humphrey stomped and fidgeted as Owen stepped closer to Erol. “What happened?”
“The Dragon wiped us out, sent his scythe flyers to open our caves, and then the Dragon himself poured fire down.” He closed his eyes and waved a foreleg in front of his face. “My wife tried to protect the children and was cut down.”
“Starbuck?” Owen said.
“Fought valiantly but he, too, was consumed.”
Owen sat in the dirt by the dark water. Lightning flashed in the distance.
“How did you escape?” Watcher said.
“I have asked that a thousand times,” Erol
said. “Perhaps the Dragon allowed me to live as my ultimate punishment. To die would have been sweet release. But to be the only survivor, that’s the worst—knowing I did not protect my loved ones.”
“I’m so sorry,” Owen said. “I can’t help but think I was somehow to blame. We did hear the news, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“It’s not your fault, Wormling. Of course, if we hadn’t met you and helped you, none of this would have happened, but you must not let it trouble you.”
“I would have to be dead for it not to trouble me.”
Erol groaned. “Another of your strong traits. You are able to enter into the pain of others.”
“I’m coming,” Owen said, peering into the darkness of the water.
“You might want to plant your sword and jump.”
Owen stuck it in the middle of the shallow bog and swung over to the rock wall. But his sword sank.
“Sword!” he called, but it hissed and bubbled and gurgled under the surface.
“Must be quicksand,” Watcher said.
Erol waved. “Probably stuck on the bottom. Wait for morning light and you’ll see it.”
Humphrey backed away, ears twitching, and Watcher seemed uneasy, but Owen concentrated on Erol. “Come with us. You can avenge your clan’s death by helping us find the Son and defeat the Dragon.”
“You’ve been looking all this time. What makes you think you’ll ever uncover him?”
Owen pulled out the scroll. “This says there will be a meeting—”
“Wormling!” Watcher said. “Protect the words.”
Owen looked back at her, brows furrowed. “We have nothing to fear from our friend. He means us no harm.”
“I do not take offense,” Erol said. “You have both been through so much. The battle with the iskek and then being trapped inside that mountain . . .”
“Yes,” Owen said.
“Did you use the Mucker? Is he still with you?”
Owen took Mucker from his shirt pocket. It was taking the worm longer to recover, but he seemed much healthier than when Owen had left. “Watcher kept him while I . . .” Owen’s voice trailed off. He looked up at Erol. “How did you know about the iskek? And the mountain? We didn’t tell you about that.”
Sudden as a poisonous snake, Erol grabbed Mucker and the scroll and flew off the wall into the water. He quickly became a ravenous crocodile, bigger than Owen had ever seen, and snapped at Owen’s leg.
“The Changeling!” Watcher said.
Out of the shadows came cloaked figures that surrounded Watcher and Humphrey, grabbing at them with skeletal hands. Owen couldn’t breathe—these beings looked like the same ones who had met with his father!
“Run!” Watcher yelled. She and Humphrey galloped back the way they had come. But the beings subdued them.
“Get out, Wormling!” Watcher yelled.
The crocodile rose, jaws open, teeth glistening.
Owen fell back toward the wall as the rocks exploded around the crocodile. In his massive craw was the sword, glistening in the muted light.
“Sword!” Owen yelled and held out his hand, but it stayed inside the croc’s mouth.
The Changeling laughed. “You should have listened to your Watcher. She knew something wasn’t right.”
Owen ran, sloshing through the bog, sinking in mud, then fighting his way out. The croc had disappeared, but now Owen felt the wing flaps of some invisible flyer. He stepped into a deep hole just as a gust of wind whipped his wet hair and a screech passed overhead.
Owen had been frightened of water since he was young, but after the rigorous training from Mordecai, it was his best friend. If he could make it to whatever lay beyond this wetland, he could escape.
Watcher and Humphrey weren’t on the path. Owen called for his sword once more but to no avail. When the wings again flapped above him, he ducked and fell into cold water. He swam right, along the edge of the bank, until a splash sent a spray over him.
He dog-paddled to the edge among tree roots and branches and crawled into the tangle, his head just above the surface.
Something moved near him, and Owen brought his legs up, scanning the water. Had the Changeling become the crocodile? a giant python?
Owen climbed branch by branch. Just as his feet left the water, a fish with sharp teeth jumped at him, gnashing and biting.
Piranha! He had seen one in biology class. He’d been there when they fed it steak and watched it tear the meat apart. This was a gigantic one with teeth as big as Owen’s hands, and it chewed through the tree roots. Owen tried to kick its head, but as the piranha rose, pulling itself up by biting and lunging through the limbs, Owen jumped down and ran through the swamp.
The Changeling’s brain capacity changed each time he morphed into another being. He shied away from becoming a fish or a bird—never an insect or a tiny animal like a squirrel or a rat. So after munching through the branches as a piranha, it had taken him a while to realize his prey was not in the tree.
He slipped back into the water, closed his eyes, and turned into a black panther. With a shot he was out of the water and shaking it from his fur, his body sleek and muscular. The Changeling ran his tongue over sharp teeth that could tear the flesh of any animal. All he had to do was find this Wormling, as the Dragon had directed, and bring him to the ground. One twist of his mighty jaws around the puny being’s neck and it would be over. Since the Wormling did not have his sword, his friends, or that wretched worm, he was defenseless.
What the Changeling lost in brainpower as a piranha he had gained in ferocity. And now, as a panther, he gained the skill and cunning of a hunter. Nearly impossible to see in this dark terrain, the panther moved with stealth, its eyes sharp, sniffing the scent of the enemy.
With each form he took, the Changeling marveled at the different strengths and weaknesses of animals. While some could speak and reason, others were endowed with great strength or speed. He’d detested being that Erol character, with such a short nose and small body. It had been limiting, for sure, but he did enjoy making music. He tapped into the creature’s own musical ability, though he had to make up the sad song, for Erol’s family and clansmen had not been killed by the Dragon. The Changeling had merely used the story to exploit the Wormling’s concern for others.
Scanning the bog, hugging the ground, the panther sniffed at a few jargid dens and was tempted to run after a deer in the distance, but he stayed on task. He caught a human scent and angled left, snarling, picking each footfall carefully. He came to a knoll in the moor and tensed, sniffing one last time to make sure. Then he sprang over the edge and leaped on the form that lay at the bottom of the dip.
Owen ran, shivering, having shed his cloak in the moor and hoping the Changeling would be thrown off by the scent. He made as little noise as possible slogging over the wet ground, finally reaching the path, where he gained speed. He wished he could somehow soar above the land so he could search for Watcher and Humphrey. He couldn’t imagine life without them now.
Behind him a growl and a scream sounded like a 500-pound wildcat. The closest he had been to one of those was watching on television.
Eerie flashes of lightning lit the path. At the next flash, Owen expected the jaws of some huge cat in front of him. Instead he saw the opening to a cave and dashed inside. The back was smooth with a small ledge. He crawled in as far as he could, pulled his legs close, and waited.
His heart still beating wildly, breath coming in gasps, Owen’s eyes adjusted. With each flash of light he thought he saw another monster—an iskek, a neodim, a moval.
* * *
Owen Reeder was alone, unless you counted the invisible being next to him—the one looking fondly down at him, the one who witnessed the loss of the missing chapter, the seizing of Watcher and Humphrey, Mucker’s kidnapping, and the sword now devoured by the Changeling. The one who had followed Owen this entire time, helpless to intervene until now.
Owen had come to the end of his strength, the end
of himself. He had lost the friend who had helped him get to the Lowlands. He had also lost the two best friends he had met, Watcher and Humphrey. He had lost the scroll, The Book of the King, and the very thing that gave him confidence in battle—his sword.
In short, he had lost everything.
Crouching in this cave, alone, wet, and shivering, as low as he had been since the death of Bardig, Owen had lost something more: the very desire to continue. Part of him wished that whoever or whatever was chasing him would make a quick end of him.
This despair enveloped Owen as wholly as the cave’s darkness. He did not weep; he merely shrank into a tiny ball and sat against the cold stone.
All that was left were Owen’s memories.
Memories of friends.
Memories of victory and self-confidence.
Memories of a few words from The Book of the King.
In view of the King’s mercy, I strongly advise you to surrender yourselves—mind, heart, soul, and body—as an offering to the one who has called you. By this, you show the King you are willing to serve him fully.
I have surrendered everything, Owen thought. I did all the King asked, and where has it gotten me? No closer to his Son. No closer to being back in the Highlands. Chased and nearly killed and now utterly alone.
“But you are closer to the king of the west.”
Owen jumped, hitting his head, staring at the darkness. “Who are you? Show yourself.”
“As you wish.”
Gradually, as sand drips through an hourglass, a man appeared. He looked familiar in strange, shimmering clothing that reached his sandals. He had a short-cropped beard, salt-and-pepper hair, and a pleasant face. But Owen had learned the hard way not to trust a pleasant—even familiar—face.
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