The Changeling (5 page)

A small lamp gave off heat in the center of the tent, and Watcher lay down next to it. Owen sat on animal skins, his bare feet near the lamp.

“What brings you to our battle line, Wormling?” Connor said.

“You're waiting for a battle? Your fires are bright enough to attract many enemies.”

“I've assembled warriors from several provinces. We have enough to make an interesting fight.”

“You have enough to bloody this field, Connor. But it's not time. When the Son returns—”

“You speak of the King's Son often. I think it's a convenient excuse.”

“The Son is the key to any battle against the Dragon. Without him, you would be fighting not only the Dragon but the prophecy as well.”

Connor smirked and shook his head. “The prophecy! I hear you let this book that was so important to you fall into the hands of the mortal enemy of the King. Doesn't that put your job as a Wormling in danger?”

Watcher sat up. “You have no idea how the Wormling fought to get the book back—or of his fight in the Castle of the Pines.”

“The King's castle? A strange place to find the Son; it's been abandoned so long.”

“The prophecy is clear,” Owen said. “The Dragon will be defeated but not before the Son returns. He will lead you into battle, and not until then can you succeed. You'll fight only in your own strength.”

Connor took a bite of fruit and spit out a seed. “Do you know how long we've waited, suffered under the talons of that Dragon? Already we are winning. We decimated a raiding party of vaxors two days ago.”

“Vaxors?” Owen said.

“Repulsive,” Watcher said. “They fight with axes and clubs.”

“Just because you defeated these—whatever you call them,” Owen said, “doesn't mean you should take up
this
battle.”

“I've heard of the Wormling and the prophecies all my life. I've been told to sit and wait, and I've watched my countrymen obey like sheep, running and hiding and hoping we would survive each attack by the Dragon. I will run no more.”

“You will die.”

“At least I will have done something instead of just talking about what
might
be someday. Women talk. Children tell stories. Men
fight
.”

“Do not ridicule your women,” Owen said. “They are strong in spirit and will fight when the time comes. And don't belittle the stories of children or their love of those stories. It is their innocence and purity the Dragon hates the most. And the King loves the most. In this battle, the King can use any and all who wish to follow him.”

“This book of yours—does it say such things?” Connor asked.

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, healing 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.