The Changeling (9 page)

Owen grabbed the hilt of his sword and fled up the path, Watcher and the horse in front of him, navigating the treacherous rocks. When they neared where they had slept, they stopped.

“We'll fight,” Owen said, brandishing his sword in the sunlight.

The horse sniffed and shook his head.

“There are too many,” Watcher said.

Owen looked above. “I can throw my sword and cause a rockslide to fill the path behind us.”

“Nothing will keep the rocks from hitting us,” Watcher said. “There's only one way. We jump the gap.”

The horse whinnied and snorted.

“He says he can make it,” Watcher said.

“I thought you didn't understand horse.”

“Body language,” she said. “His tail twitches when he agrees.”

“We can't take the chance,” Owen said.

Watcher moved toward the gang of vaxors racing at them. She stepped off 50 paces, turned, and began running, reaching full speed just as she passed Owen. She leaped at the edge of the chasm, a small rock falling into the hole in slow motion. Watcher soared over the chasm, stretching and, Owen thought, almost flying.

Owen's heart was in his mouth. If Watcher fell, she would never survive. She landed on the other side, stumbled, caught herself, and looked back, grinning.

The horse nudged Owen, and he turned to see human faces under all that vaxor hair. And they wore jargid skins on their feet. Their arms and chests were painted with black mud, and their skin looked rugged, like a crocodile's. The leaders of the group carried long knives, axes, and studded clubs. The biggest vaxor led the way, horns protruding, and he emitted a hoarse growl.

The horse moved behind Owen and stuck his head between Owen's knees. Owen slid down the animal's neck and grabbed the reins, galloping toward the vaxors.

“Death to the Wormling!” the leader shouted.

A cry from behind him reverberated off the walls. The vaxors were soon on them, gnashing their teeth and swinging their weapons. A huge vaxor with yellow eyes grabbed for the horse's tail. Owen pulled his sword and sent the vaxor veering off into a rock, banging his horns. The others keep coming, flailing their weapons.

“Go!” Watcher yelled from the other side of the chasm.

Owen's eyes grew wide as he and the horse neared the crevasse. Owen bent low, and as the horse leaped, he threw the sword into the path, where it stuck. Owen felt the power in the horse's neck muscles and closed his eyes as they went airborne.

Hundreds of feet above the valley floor, Owen soared with the horse's mane in his face, the wind in his ears. When they finally landed and the horse pulled up next to Watcher, Owen laughed and tumbled off and shoved his fist into the air.

Behind them, the horde of vaxors screamed and hurled clubs at them, most falling into the chasm. One vaxor with long, stringy hair pulled Owen's sword from the ground.

The leader grabbed it and held it high. “We have the Sword of the Wormling!” he shouted.

“Sword!” Owen called.

Immediately the sword shot from the creature's hand, and Owen caught it.

“Look!” Watcher said.

A chant rose among the vaxors as a tall gladiator ran the gauntlet, lifting off perfectly from the edge. “Death to the Wormling!” he yelled as he raised his club and sailed through the air, gray-brown hair swirling. He tucked his legs under, then stretched as far as he could. When he saw he wasn't going to make it, he dropped the club and reached for the other side. His knee struck with a sickening crunch, and the creature's face fell. He grabbed but came up empty, green fingernails scratching the dirt. Finally he tumbled into the chasm with a scream so bloodcurdling that Owen had to turn away.

“Unfair!” the leader of the horde shouted. “You killed a defenseless combatant!”

“I didn't touch him,” Owen yelled.

A few vaxors tried scampering up the side wall, but the rocks were loose, and they, too, fell to their deaths.

The leader glared at Owen. “We'll get you, Wormling! I will have your sword and on it your head!”

The horde jeered as Owen rode away.

Owen proposed the name Jumper or Leaper for the lifesaving horse as they hurried toward Yodom. He didn't like Watcher's suggestions of Bertwin, Redmund, or Gwilym. “Too Lowlandish,” he said.

“Humph,” the horse said.

“Well, Wormling,” Watcher said, “yours tell only what the horse
does
. You might as well call him Apple Eater.”

“Well, what do yours mean?”

“
Bertwin
means ‘shining friend.' See how his coat glistens? And he is certainly your friend.
Redmund
means ‘red-haired defender,' and—”

“His hair's not red.”

“His mane is if you look at it from this side and the light shines just so.”

“Humph,” the horse said.

“
Gwilym
means ‘resolute guardian,' ” Watcher said, “and I think it fits best.”

“Wait, what does
Wormling
mean?” Owen said. “ ‘The one who carries the worm'?”

“Oh, dear,” Watcher said. “How awful not to know what your name means.
Wormling
means you are the keeper of the worm, yes, but it also carries the meaning of sacrifice—that you would lay down your life for your King if called to. Those who speak of you years from now will call you a champion of good.”

“Words that should be reserved for the Son.”

Watcher smiled. “Can you believe there will one day be a wedding our world will never forget?”

“
The Book of the King
describes it as a feast and a party,” Owen said, “to which everyone will be invited.”

“It sounds glorious.”

“But we have to find the Son first,” Owen said.

“Then what?”

“He finds the princess.”

Watcher's eyes gleamed. “And the Son will unite both worlds, and there will be no more Dragon, no more sickness, disease, or death. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Owen could tell she was becoming emotional, so he changed the subject. “In the Highlands, I was known as Owen.” He spelled it for her and sounded out the letters. “I got teased a lot for it.”

Watcher furrowed her brow. “I don't know why. It means ‘young warrior.' ”

“I mostly ran from fights.”

“Well, when you return there, you will be much stronger—of heart and of muscle.”

“What about you?” Owen said. “What does
Watcher
mean? ‘Cantankerous, opinionated, talkative one who watches . . .' ”

Watcher's eyes narrowed.

“ ‘. . . and who has a very small sense of humor.' ” He laughed and put his hands on her shoulders. “To me it means ‘good-hearted friend; a constant companion with a fire in her heart for the King.' ”

Watcher looked down. “It just means ‘one who watches.' ”

“No, it means so much more. It means ‘one who follows diligently, ferociously, unceasingly, and wholeheartedly.' ”

“Humph,” the horse said.

“Wait,” Owen said. “What does
Humphrey
mean?”

“ ‘Lover of peace,' I believe.”

“Are you a lover of peace?” Owen said to the horse.

The horse stared back at him until Owen pulled an apple from his pocket and sliced it with his sword. “Perhaps you are a lover of a piece of apple?”

“Humph,” the horse said, crunching the apple halves.

Watcher laughed. “Humphrey it is.”

The village of Yodom teetered at the base on the back side of the White Mountain. Shacks and buildings clung to the earth, and trees stood at weird angles, looking as if they could fall at any moment. Haggard people walked the trails, some carrying food for dinner, one hauling water up a treacherous hill. Children wearing threadbare clothing earnestly tossed rocks onto a massive pile.

Villagers seemed to eye Owen and his companions with suspicion. Perhaps they feared strange faces that could mean robbers or diseases that might wipe out the whole village.

Owen stopped a woman carrying a load of wood and straw, her face deeply lined and her hair covered by a tightly-wrapped bandanna. She appeared to have three good teeth: one in the middle on top and two spaced unevenly on the bottom. She looked like the old woman with the poison apple in
Snow White
.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Owen said. “We're looking for someone known as the Scribe.”

One gray eye clouded over; the other darted. Her voice was like fingernails on a blackboard. “Come to spy on us, have you?”

“Spies?” someone else said.

Word spread quickly, and children came running, chased by worried-looking mothers and men with pitchforks and long wooden spikes.

“The Dragon sent these three,” the old woman said. “I can feel it.”

“No,” Owen said. “We come in the name of the King.”

“He is a Wormling,” Watcher yelled. “We seek the King's Son.”

Three men menaced with their pitchforks. “If he is the Wormling,” the leader said, “let him show us his magic.” The man was brawny with bushy sideburns. “I've heard since I was a youngling that a Wormling could fly.”

“I can't.”

“I heard he can hover,” another said. “Can you hover?”

“If I could, I wouldn't be walking, would I?”

The farmer sneered.

“Wait,” the first said. “Can you make fire come from your armpits?”

Children drew closer, studying Owen. Others called for him to spin a web between trees, turn the sky green, and spit Wormling juice.

“I don't know where you heard these stories,” Owen said, “but they're not true. I did come here from another world. I read from
The Book of the King
and—”

A gasp arose from the crowd, and the old woman pointed a crooked finger at him. “You can read?”

Owen nodded.

“Prove it!” She waved, and the farmers moved toward him.

Watcher growled and stepped in front of Owen, but he put out a hand. “It's all right. They're just confused.”

The men took Owen to the center of town, where houses encircled a clearing. One of the men took Owen's sword and held it up to the sunlight.

“It's the Sword of the Wormling,” Owen said.

“I can see what it is,” the man said. “I just don't know how you got it. Did you kill the Wormling?”

“I
am
the Wormling. Why won't you listen?”

“Because the Wormling is ten feet tall with arms the size of tree trunks,” the old woman said.

“Listen to him,” Watcher said. “He
is
the Wormling. We have traveled—”

“Silence!” a farmer thundered. “Give him the scroll.”

Another collective gasp. A young, round-faced girl handed a roll of parchment to Owen, her brown eyes melting his heart. All the children seemed frightened and unkempt.

“Read,” the farmer said.

Owen opened the scroll, but it was in a different script. “I can't read this.”

“Kill him!” the old woman said. “I told you they were spies!”

A roar rose from the crowd again, and the farmers moved toward Owen.

“Stop!” Owen said. “I can't read this, but I can read from
The Book of the King
. One portion says, ‘Anyone who greets you on the path and offers so much as a cold drink of water will share in your reward. Kindness breeds more kindness.' ”

“Where did you hear that?” the old woman said.

“He told you,” Watcher said. “From
The Book of the King
.”

“And where is this book now?”

Owen sighed. “The Dragon took it from me.”

“I told you he was a spy!” the woman yelled. “He does the Dragon's bidding in exchange for this cursed book!”

“Listen to me!” Owen said. “For too long you've lived in fear of the Dragon, of demon flyers, of losing your families to the vaxors, who kill and steal and destroy. But the King wants you to live. He wants to bring you freedom and wholeness. He wants to bring you victory over the Dragon through his Son. I must find him, and I need the help of the Scribe.”

The people stared at Owen, appearing surprised at the authority in his voice.

The old woman shuffled forward. “How do you know the Scribe lives here?”

Owen mentioned Mordecai, and the old woman glanced at the farmers as they moved away. “We esteem Mordecai here almost as much as the King,” she said. “Did he tell you that he came through here and helped us many years ago?”

“No, but he did mention the Scribe lived here—”

“The Scribe is old and confused,” a farmer said.

“The Dragon got to his mind,” the old woman said.

Owen's heart fell. “Still, I would like to talk with him.”

“He's telling the truth,” the brown-eyed girl said. “I believe him.”

The crowd grumbled, but soon everyone let the three pass.

Owen knelt and looked the girl in the eye. “
The Book of the King
says, ‘You will enter the kingdom when you become like a small child, free of pride and willing to listen.' Thank you, little one.”