A Hero's Throne (An Ancient Earth)
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The Realms Thereunder
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The Realms Thereunder
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ITLE
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“With beautiful imagery, thoughtful imagination, and a touch of humor,
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THE ANCIENT EARTH TRILOGY
BOOK TWO:
A HERO’S
THRONE
ROSS LAWHEAD
© 2012 by Ross Lawhead
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lawhead, Ross.
A hero’s throne / Ross Lawhead.
p. cm. — (The ancient earth trilogy ; bk. 2)
ISBN 978-1-59554-910-5 (trade paper)
1. Fantasy fiction. 2. Christian fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.A864H47 2013
813'.54—dc23
2012036812
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1
What have the strong gods given?
Where have the glad gods led?
When Guthrum sits on a hero’s throne
And asks if he is dead?
— G. K. C
HESTERTON
,
T
HE
B
ALLAD OF THE
W
HITE
H
ORSE
F
OR
M
OM
—A
N INSPIRATION TO
ADVENTURING HEROINES EVERYWHERE
Contents
PROLOGUE:
A Tale of a Western Isle
CHAPTER ONE:
“The Dragon Changed Everything . . .”
CHAPTER TWO:
Echoes of the Fall
CHAPTER FOUR:
Pens and Pendulums
CHAPTER SIX:
A Show of Good Faith
CHAPTER EIGHT:
Books, A Sword, A Knife
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
Daniel’s Torment
CHAPTER TWELVE:
The Warchief’s Lament
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
The Blowing of the Horn
EPILOGUE:
A Tale of a Western Isle Continued
So, this is my tale, and it happened a long time ago. A long, long time ago, before there were Christians in the Hebrides. And it’s about this here monk, see, and this here boy.
The monk was from the low country, and he was travelling to Broadford in Skye in order to spread the word of God among the inhabitants of that island, for there were even then folk living on Skye, although they were from an old and strange people. This monk’s name was Coel, and he was not native to those lands, but his name is remembered there still. He had a boat that was so small he had to sit in it cross-legged. This type of boat was called a coracle and was common in the time I am telling you about.
It was a damp, grey day on the sea—the type where a man didn’t know if there was more water beneath the boat or in the air around it. The island of Skye ahead of him could not be seen at all, and the first he knew of it was when he heard the whisper of sand underneath the bottom of the boat. The monk was glad for this and gave thanks to God for not forgetting him in the fog.
Stepping out of the boat, water squished into his leather shoes as he made his way up the beach.
He drew his bark up behind him, toiling along the wet shore, and set it against a cluster of rocks and boulders in order to shelter himself from the wind and mist.
He had just made his camp when he heard the sound of voices raised in wails of lament, loud shrieks and shouts, awful they were.
He followed the sound of these tormented cries to the forest that lined the beach. There before him, walking through the trees and the mist, he saw a shifting line of figures dressed in clothes of fantastic colours and design. They were marching in procession behind a column of jet-black horses that hauled a silver skiff, upon which was a glass coffin, containing the body of a very old woman. She was very beautiful, even for being dead, and although the fantastic bier dragged on the ground, it never hit a bump or fell into a rut.
The monk was canny—canny enough to realise that it was a Færie funeral he was observing. Planting his walking stick into the ground, he knelt and, to protect himself, began to read to himself from the Gospels, keeping his eyes trained fast on his book. He read out loud so as to keep the holy words in his ears, so as to seal them, in a way, from the cries of the damned.
As he read, one of the members of the funeral train—a boy dressed all in green—left it and came and crouched in front of him. Coel did not raise his eyes to look at him, he merely kept reading.
The procession disappeared and the wailing diminished, eventually vanishing altogether. But the boy did not leave Coel’s side, and so he continued reading, not wanting to allow himself to be tempted into follies.
He read on, straight through Matthew and, when he finished that, continued on to Mark. And from Mark he went to Luke, and
Luke on to John. And then he was finished; he had no more scriptures to read.
So he decided to pray—a long-winded and exhaustive prayer it was. He bowed his head low—very low, so as to shut out vision of the boy who might work enchantments on him to entice him away to destruction.
When he finished his prayer, he opened his eyes and looked around.
The boy was still there.
“I have marked all that you have read,” the boy said. “Tell me, is there any hope of forgiveness in those words for my people?”
Coel spoke kindly but cautiously to him, fearing to be drawn into an enchantment. He said that there wasn’t mention of salvation for any but the sinful sons of Adam.
Hearing this, the boy became disconsolate, and he picked up the wailing that he had laid down earlier and plunged himself into the sea.
“The Dragon Changed Everything . . .”
_____________________
I
_____________________
It is a golf hotel in Galashiels, just over the border. Gentle green slopes of the Scottish lowlands stretched into the distance, the pale, patchy greens only interrupted by an occasional blob of yellow.
They had driven through the day in the police cruiser, arriving at about six in the evening. Alex and Ecgbryt took turns driving. Freya drifted in and out of sleep, still exhausted from her ordeal. Daniel, next to her, gripped the door handle next to him so tightly it was as if he were the only thing holding it in place. Freya would look across to him in the moments when she awoke, and although his eyes were closed, he didn’t seem to be sleeping.
They had taken two twin rooms—Daniel and Freya shared one and promptly fell asleep again. And now, on the restaurant’s
terrace after a hearty meal of meat, potatoes, and gravy, they were listening to Alex talk about dragons.
“It really did. I mean it—the dragon changed
everything
.” Alex paused to let this sink in. “Before then, it was just simple creatures that we were dealing with—the low or single ‘elementals’ as they’re called; trolls, sprites, wisps, that sort of thing. Those sorts wander through our borders all the time, causing trouble, and often wander back out again without anybody taking notice. They’re not what you’d call complex creatures, so they can drop through the gates quite easily. When the gates are open, that is—there’s sort of a season for it.
“Anyway. We’d noticed an increase in activity lately, but it was very gradual, and nothing we couldn’t handle. Ecgbryt and I were monitoring it, and we thought we had more time.
“But dragons are a different kettle of fish all together. Talk about your complex elementals . . . They’re actually many types of elements all layered together, wrapped up in one. And smart. So smart.” He sat back, shaking his head. “Something like that doesn’t just drop in from one world to another. It was brought here, possibly pulled here—
summoned
, maybe—or it was raised here, which is even more upsetting. So this was a new development. Its arrival was no accident or chance circumstance—it was pretty much a declaration of war.”
“By who?” Daniel asked.
“That’s a good question.”
Alex took a long sip of his pint, then cradled it against his chest.
“Was it big?” Freya asked.
“The dragon? Big enough,” Alex said, lifting his eyebrows. “I was lucky it was only a hatchling. Ecgbryt said it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. And it near finished me, even at that.”
“How do you know all this?” Daniel asked, leaning forward on the table.
“My family descends from a very small clan in the highlands—one of the secret clans. We own a distinct tartan, which we never wear. We’ve been called, through the ages, the ‘Nethergrund Cannies,’ that is, those that have knowledge of the lands beneath. But really we only use that to refer to ourselves, since we are a very secret clan, and few on this earth have knowledge of the knowledgeable people. It has always been such, and it is best as such.
“Our current appointment goes back through the Forty-Five and the Fifteen, to the fourteenth century. Our purpose was to defend the hidden land in three ways: to protect, to procure, and to uphaud. Protect the portals to the nethergrund, procure provisions for whatever was needful—be it metal or tools for smithing and carving—and to uphaud, to repair whatever tunnels have been felled by time and disuse. When I was a boy, I would be taken underground with my father and my grand-da to walk the tunnels, and I gained the ken. I learned them just as they learnt them, by sight and by memory. We had maps, but they are old and inaccurate. The best way is to walk them yourself. I many times walked the area where you popped up. And killed yfelgópes too.”