A Hero's Throne (An Ancient Earth) Read online

  Acclaim for

  The Realms Thereunder

  “The Realms Thereunder is a fantastically compelling novel mixing the best of fantasy, adventure, and intrigue. It’s one of those can’t-put-down tales you’ll be thinking about long after turning the last page. Fans of C. S. Lewis, the Inkheart Trilogy, and of course Stephen Lawhead will find much to enjoy in this well-crafted read.”

  —C.J. DARLINGTON, TITLETRAKK.COM;

  AUTHOR OF BOUND BY GUILT

  “With beautiful imagery, thoughtful imagination, and a touch of humor, The Realms Thereunder is an excellent beginning to an insightful and exciting new fantasy series.”

  —MELISSA WILLIS, THECHRISTIANMANIFESTO.COM

  “For lovers of Stephen Lawhead, his influence shines through in this story of fantasy, reality and everything in between!”

  —LORI TWICHELL, RADIANTLIT.COM

  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. CHESTERTON, THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE

  FOR MOM—AN 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 THREE: Assassin

  CHAPTER FOUR: Pens and Pendulums

  CHAPTER FIVE: Stone Leaves

  CHAPTER SIX: A Show of Good Faith

  CHAPTER SEVEN: The Pious Kings

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Books, A Sword, A Knife

  CHAPTER NINE: The Witch Bottle

  CHAPTER TEN: The Giants of Man

  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

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  A Tale of a Western Isle

  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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “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.”

  “Tell them about Ealdstan,” Ecgbryt said, placing another empty pint glass in front of him. That made three.

  “I met him once, just the once. Grim and uncommon mean, he seemed, although, mind you, I was only eight.”

  “Why? What’d he do?” Freya asked.

  “He argued with my grand-da about something, while my father stood by. None would speak of it to me afterward, but I gathered he wanted me to perform some task—a journey and then a task—but my grand-da refused. Said I was too young and the thing was needless. Aye, I believe it was the same task he sent you both on that he was wishing for me.”

  “Killing Gád?” Daniel asked.

  “Aye, mebbe, mebbe. I don’t recall Gád being discussed, but as I said, I was young. My family had many conflicts with Ealdstan over the years.”

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t like the direction he was taking. And Ealdstan called them traitors to his cause, although my father attempted to be conciliatory. And for myself? Well, I don’t really know what we’ve found ourselves in the middle of at the moment. If it was just a crazy old wizard, that’d be one thing. But like I said, the dragon changed everything.”

  “How?” Freya asked. “I mean, I understand that dragons might be a big deal, but how exactly does that change things?”

  “Dragons cause all manner of mischief.”

  “That’s a truth, and putting it mildly,” Ecgbryt said, signalling for another dark ale.

  “Aye, putting it mildly,” Alex assented. “You see, it’s not just the trouble that they cause in themselves—stealing sheep and livestock, people, pets—it’s also the effect they have on the area around them, in what you might say a spiritual sense. They literally depress the entire region they inhabit.”

  “Depress it?” Daniel repeated.

  “Aye,” he said with a nod. “I’ve felt it many times; it’s a thick, heavy, dark emotion that sticks to you like tar. Makes you tired, makes you sluggish. Not everyone associates moods with places, and so it takes most off guard. You don’t wake up when you want to, you don’t go out as often, you retreat into your cave. And when you do go out, you’re peevish and fashed, as are the people you meet. Everyone is at one another’s throats, knives out—suicides, theft . . . it brings out all that is worst in human nature.”

  He shook his head. “It used to be that we were prepared—the whole country was prepared—against these sorts of attacks. I’m talking about the old days—the golden olden times. The old poems talk more about a knight’s virtues than his weapons; read Gawain and the Green Knight, see if I’m wrong. Read Pearl. Think about the knights of the round table; leaders with integrity. The common folk were neither here nor there, and there was an extremely high percentage of enchanters and evil princes per capita, it's true, but society was, on the whole, well-provisioned for means of correction against such mystical incursions. That is not true today. Most don’t even acknowledge any sort of spiritual threat—any sort of spirit, even—and those that do have been lulled into an opiate daze by cushy lives, quiet cars, easy jobs, fast food . . . a hypnotic dance of colours and social interactions on your computer screen. People fight for their lives, but we’ve forgotten how to fight for our souls.”

  “Okay, but what does the dragon mean?” Freya asked, trying to get him back to the topic at hand. “You think the mythical world came into our world?”

  “The mystical worlds, yes. There are more than one of them, and with Ealdstan missing and Niðergeard destroyed, our world is vulnerable to invasion.”

  “Niðergeard has fallen?” Daniel said.

  Ecgbryt shifted in his seat. “Niðergeard has fallen,” he said. “It is overrun. I blundered in unwittingly and was lucky to escape with my skin when I found yfelgópes roaming the streets, pillaging the smiths and stores.”

  “How did the yfelgópes organise and mobilise without Gád?” Daniel said. “Was it Kelm?”

  “We believe so,” Ecgbryt said.

  “Who is Kelm?” Freya asked.

  “Kelm Kafhand,” said Ecgbryt. “Your paths have not crossed with his—even I would not know him to see him. He is the general of the yfelgóp army and moves at Gád’s will as if he were his master’s own hand. Since Ecgbryt came to me, we’ve been going over the library top to tail and found no mention of anyone by that name. Not in our library, at least. There were other libraries kept by cannies all over the isles, but over the years they have diminished and lost touch with each other. There once were cannies in Wales, Ireland, and all over England—the West Country, Kent, Winchester—but relations between them wore down over the years, and Ealdstan did not keep them up.’’

  “Okay, so he’s invaded Niðergeard,�
� Daniel said. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do, young Daniel?” Ecgbryt answered. “What do you think we are going to do? We are going to take it back!” He pounded the table with his fist, making their glasses and cutlery jump.

  “Yes!” Daniel shouted. He pounded the table too. “Yes, yes! That’s exactly what I wanted you to say!”

  Freya, unsettled, looked to Alex. He was more subdued but smiling eagerly.

  “What do we do? What do we do first?” Daniel asked, leaning in, his voice a harsh, excited whisper.

  “It is no easy task planning to retake the underground realm with just a handful of faithfuls,” Ecgbryt said, raising his palms. “Even with the stout party that is gathered here. No, we will need to marshal our resources, build an army.”

  “What about the sleeping knights?” Daniel asked. “Can we use them? Storm the city in force?”

  “Patience, young Daniel, patience! First we would have to locate the knights and the tunnels used to access them. It is not a case of just wandering through the many thousands of tunnels—the old and inaccurate maps and texts would have to be studied and compared to modern ones. Then a route would have to be plotted—not as easy as it sounds—in order to pick up as many knights as quickly as possible.”

  “That couldn’t take that long to do, surely?”

  Ecgbryt stroked his trimmed beard and eyed him. “Such an undertaking may require years. Several years at least.”

  “Years? Really?” Daniel asked, shrinking back in disappointment.

  “Years, certainly. Which is why you are lucky”—Ecgbryt’s eyelids drooped teasingly—“that we have already done all that.”