When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  Sometimes you have to break the rules, and that’s what Lattimore does in When Darkness Comes, his second offering of the Otherealm Saga. He’s written a book about spiritual warfare in the everyday. Upstanding citizen and officer of the law, Brent Lawton, has to choose between what is right and what is legal, mirroring the author’s own choice to write Christian fiction capable of engrossing and entertaining a mainstream audience. This book—this series—is for anyone who enjoys a good mystery, and is chock full of twists and turns that make a reader go “hmmm…!” Excellent work! This writer has written a tale worthy of its own Hollywood movie.

  —S.R. Karfelt, Author of the Covenant Keeper Series

  As a former professional editor, I’m pretty picky about what I read. As a busy mom, I want an exciting story I can escape into for a little while, but also something that’s got some depth to it. W. Franklin Lattimore’s Behind the Darkness hits the spot! This book had me spellbound from the first chapter, with its perfect mix of heart-stirring dialogues, beautiful and powerful emotions, and surreal spiritual battles. I can hardly wait for his next book!

  —Shirley Avery, Editor

  With Deliver Us from Darkness, W. Franklin Lattimore propels himself into the ranks of powerful storytellers like Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker. Not only does he weave a tale of intrigue, intelligence and deep characters, he does it with the bold courage to rip the curtains away from dark truths, which is too often lacking in authors today. The result is a fascinating story that will leave you excited and shaking and flipping pages faster than you can say, “Holy cow!”

  —Robert Liparulo, Best-Selling Author of

  Comes a Horseman, Germ, and Deadfall

  Move over Frank Peretti, there is another Frank in town!

  —Andi Newberry-Tubbs, Award-Winning

  Book Reviewer & Blogger

  when darkness comes

  Copyright © 2015, 2017 W. Franklin Lattimore

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Open Window

  an imprint of BHC Press

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2017935165

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946006-80-6

  ISBN-10: 1-946006-80-7

  Also available in trade softcover

  Visit the author at:

  www.wfranklinlattimore.com &

  www.bhcpress.com

  Book design by

  Blue Harvest Creative

  www.blueharvestcreative.com

  The Three-in-One—I am both humbled and amazed by the ability that You have given to me to write this story—and especially the ones to come. I would say that I appreciate You more than You know, but since You know everything…

  Brent Bauer—You are a man of integrity who has chosen to take a stand against the Enemy to fight for the spiritual freedom of others. Your stances and your character are the reasons behind the name Brent Lawton.

  Robert Liparulo—A friend and incredible author. I appreciate the amount of time that I got to spend with you at The Ragged Edge in 2011. Your insights prompted the writing of two novels, rather than a single very long one. Your willingness to provide me with additional wise counsel over the past couple of years has been priceless.

  Ted Dekker—Someone I’ve admired from afar for a very long time. Several phone conversations with you inspired a writer. Your ‘Ragged Edge’ event solidified one.

  Mark Russell—Thank you for rooting me on, brother.

  Michele Atwell—Thank you for being such a giver of time to my projects. What I have written has only gotten better with your touch.

  Lindsay Coy—Taking the time out of your busy life as a single mom of four children to go through page after page of my books, providing needed edits, has been a true blessing. Thank you.

  Sherry Porter—You are the last to touch this book’s text. And, as a result, I think there are no longer any rough spots. You have my gratitude for your time and efforts.

  The Ragged Blue Monkeys—You are the single-most encouraging group of blue-furred animals I’ve ever met. “Blue monkeys in a brown-monkey world.”

  Tammy (Trick) Brant—My biggest critic and a wonderful friend. You were methodic in the picking apart of my novel. It wasn’t easy having my creation poked and prodded, but it was your honesty that caused a more worthwhile end product.

  Lori Taggart—My friend and editor of one of my early drafts. Thank you for volunteering your talentedness.

  To Jerry & Shirley Lattimore

  Thank you for the pride you’ve shown in me.

  There are certain things a man tries to forget. Things that speak to him only in the silence of a darkened room. Things that make him afraid.

  He was reminded, again, of an old Scottish prayer that he’d memorized long ago...

  From ghoulies and ghosties

  And long-leggedy beasties

  And things that go bump in the night,

  Good Lord, deliver us!

  This was more than a bump in the night, and he had hoped he would never have to deal with anything like this again.

  “…in times past ye walked, according to the course of this world and after the prince that ruleth in the aire, euen the spirite, that nowe worketh in the children of disobedience…”

  Ephesians 2:2, Geneva Bible, 1599

  Drosten ran. He had no choice. What else could he do? He wasn’t supposed to see. He wasn’t supposed to hear.

  But he did.

  All that he could see now were the branches just before they struck his face. All that he could hear was the snapping of twigs and the rustling of underbrush beneath his feet.

  They are dead! All of them!

  He had to stop and think. He would, but first he had to find a safe place.

  River Tay was to the west. If he could make it, he could follow it back north.

  His lungs were burning. He had to stop. He had to catch his breath. He ignored the thought.

  I have to protect the key!

  Though he tried to press forward, he could no longer take the pain. He’d been running, jumping, and climbing at full speed for too long. He slowed and tried to continue by walking, but ultimately he fell to his knees gasping.

  He tried to listen. Was he being followed? If his heart would stop hammering in his ears and his lungs would just relax, he would be able to tell.

  Drosten, Keeper of the Bridei Key, focused to control his breathing. He stilled his body, closed his eyes, and willed his heart and lungs to slow down.

  After a few moments, he was able to hear clearly again. He concentrated on the woods behind him. He could hear nothing. He concentrated on the high grasses to his left. Nothing.

  He lifted his chin and breathed in. A scent. Water! The river is close! He got up and began to walk toward the last stand of trees that sheltered the wide waterway. Upon breaching the thick woods he released a sigh of relief. He had reached the Tay.

  He recognized where he stood. He was at a large bend that jutted eastward before heading back west. He’d been traveling northward the whole time. Good.

  Drosten walked to the bank of the river and knelt for a drink. The cool water from the highlands relieved his parched throat. After taking his fill, he stood and surveyed as much of the landscape as he could by the light of the moon. Traveling the riv
er was wise, but difficult. Following the waterways, he would make it from river to loch to river, all the way to Loch Ness.

  He was more than a week away from completing the journey before him. But a warrior’s allegiance is to his king and his people. Because he no longer had a king to serve, back to his people he would go.

  The warrior had no illusions about what had happened. In a matter of just a few minutes the whole world had changed. Drust, king of the Pexa,1 was dead; betrayed by the Scot King, Cináed mac Ailpin.2 All seven heirs to the Pexa crown were dead, as well. The Scotti may have finally figured out a way to extend their kingdom into the Highlands without another war.

  Even before his ill-fated journey began, Drosten knew that his king—though barely a year into his reign—was already a beaten man, though the Scot king most likely didn’t know that.

  King Drust knew that the only chance that they had to keep their lands was to bargain for peace and to combine their strength with that of the Scotti to defeat the Norse. These raiders from a distant land—these “Vikings”—with their long boats were siphoning away the remaining strength of both kingdoms.

  When the Scot king sent messengers to Loch Ness to actually propose such an alliance, King Drust breathed a sigh of relief, and Drosten had seen hope come back into his eyes.

  But now…

  The keeper of the key closed his eyes, replaying the events in his mind. He would be required to give great detail of what he had witnessed and why he was the lone survivor of Cináed mac Ailpin’s betrayal.

  The open grounds of Scone had been selected by both parties as an appropriate site to negotiate a treaty of peace. It had been the heart of the Pexa kingdom several times in their history. It was an ancient place, full of legend; a place that Drosten had always hoped to visit. Now it had become a place of agony that he wished he’d never seen.

  When the plans had been made to head to Scone, King Drust made it clear to his advisers and the other Pexa nobles that he had no intention of a permanent treaty with the Scot king. He knew that combining the forces of two kingdoms to defeat the Norse would, in the end, leave just the one enemy with which to contend. If the treaty between the Pexa and the Scotti held after the war, it would allow for a period of peace, permitting the Pexa armies to heal and grow strong again. Then, and only then, could they rid Pictland of the Scotti scourge.

  Drust, along with the seven earls, had accepted the invitation to meet with King Cináed mac Ailpin. The royals from both sides of the conflict agreed that they would enter Scone unarmed.

  The length of time that it took to arrange for the seven royal houses to both prepare and come together for travel—in addition to the time that it took to actually reach Scone—allowed the Scotti the time that they needed to set a devilish trap.

  WE ARRIVED CLEAN-SKINNED at the outskirts of Scone. The king made it clear that we were not to cover ourselves with the blue paints that we used in battle.

  It was said that some of the Romans that we had captured in battle years ago were amazed that we even had white skin. They thought we were either covered from head to toe in tattoos or that we had completely dipped ourselves in vats of blue dye. The appearance that we choose for battle is purposeful, and back then it had put an additional level of fear into the hearts and minds of the would-be Roman invaders. Tonight, though, we would appear little different than these most recent intruders in our lands—these Scots.

  Careful that we would not be noticed until we deemed fit, we took time to eye the encampment of the Scots. A long table with benches on either side stood upon a very large, ornately-woven, rug. Smaller serving tables surrounded the carpet, with a supply wagon off to the far side. Beyond that was a temporary set of railings that created a makeshift pen where their horses grazed.

  Seeing that there were but few of them was an encouragement to my king, but he was still wary. He called for me to ride up beside him as he continued to survey the scene.

  “Drosten,” he said, “you are to stay here. You are to remain diligent. Do not let your guard down for a moment.” Turning to me, he looked straight into my eyes. “You are the keeper of the key. Tell me what that means.”

  The response had been rehearsed by me for years. Each time that we rode into battle, each time that there was an attempted invasion into our lands, each time that King Drust—and the king before him, Uurad—felt that his life may be lost, I was charged with the security of this holy item that I carry right now. And with that charge the king required of me to voice my responsibilities. The object in my possession was never kept under lock and key. It was always mobile, in the hands of a warrior loyal to the king.

  “I am the keeper of the Key of Bridei. I am to protect it with my life. My life is forfeit if I fail. If my king falls, to the coast the key must go. I am to guard its passage off of the Northland if our lands fall to the hands of the enemy. I will be a warrior, a horseman, a swimmer, a shipman. I will be a snake, a bird, a horse, a fish. I will take on the form of that which is needed to make sure that the key is never touched by evil hands.”

  The king spoke an ancient Witan3 blessing over me and then told me to dismount my horse. Because I could not risk my animal being heard whilst in my care, it would be brought into camp as a pack animal so as not to raise suspicion. I was to watch everything that took place in the camp and to watch for any enemy that may be skulking about in the trees.

  If my king should fall, I would launch my trek back to the north by foot. I am fast on foot, able to make my way through areas a horse cannot. My journey would take longer, but it would be safer.

  After my assurance, the king, the earls, and the attendants made their way into the encampment of the Scots. They were welcomed, not as men at war, but as brothers. I could see the initial hesitation of my king and my brothers, but their trust was soon bought by the cup.

  It became obvious to me that our late arrival would not allow for lengthy formalities, so the Scot king had made arrangements for a time of food and drink to carry them into the night.

  Upon the ground I had sat while my stomach growled with the sight of large portions of meat on spits above fires and the smell of potatoes being prepared with spices. Honey mead by the cask-full was poured and quickly brought to lips. I will tell you, I was envious.

  For hours they ate and drank and told stories of mirth. Laughter abounded. The men were eventually ushered back to the long tables for a final round and a toast. All of my king’s men were seated on the long benches. Cináed mac Ailpin’s men took up pitchers to fill the cups once more, though it was obvious that the Pexa royals had already had too much. Even getting back to the tables was a task for each of them. Although my stomach ached for what they enjoyed, I had to restrain a laugh as a couple of our earls tried to lift legs over the benches in order to sit down.

  The Scot king finally raised his cup in the air. I could not make out what he said in the toast, but at the end he shouted at the top of his lungs a word that echoed in the night air and sent a chill down my spine.

  “Death!”

  The word had barely escaped his mouth when his men, standing at the ends of the benches on both sides of the table, pulled out several long sticks or pins from out of the ground near where my brothers were sitting. Both benches collapsed at once! Those I knew disappeared … into the ground!

  I tell you, I do not understand it even now. They were just gone!

  The screams echo through my mind and rob the air from my lungs just on the recounting of what I saw. Their bodies fell down onto upward-facing blades. As I stood to my feet I could see slivers of light glinting out of the backs and bellies of the royals from where the blades protruded.

  The Pexa attendants who tried to run were clubbed by the Scots to their deaths. That is when I realized I was alone; alone to my mission.

  Listen to me! I am not a coward! I do not run away from a fight. I am Keeper of the Key because of my acts of courage! I am fearless in battle. And until this very moment, I thought no enemy co
uld put fear into me.

  Listen to me, I say! I do not fear for my life. I fear for the loss of what I carry.

  This is the key to the history of my people. Our legacy, our religion, our birthright.

  This is what made our people special among the peoples of the earth.

  This is what will ensure that my people will never die!

  Brent sat in the living room with his MacBook Pro on his lap. He still had a little time to enjoy peace and quiet before the wife and kids got home.

  Along with FoxNews.com, he opened up his Facebook page. He had two messages, one notification, and three friend requests that beckoned for attention.

  He was admittedly, and intentionally, a latecomer to the whole Facebook craze. He hadn’t wanted any other intrusions on his time. God, family, and work. Those were his daily focus. However, people kept pressing him, both at church and within his own family, especially his sister, Lydia.

  Since she had been stationed at the U.S. Air Base on the Island of Okinawa, Japan, he finally gave in. And now, after the monumental earthquake in Japan, she let all of her friends and family know that she would be posting frequent updates on her page about how things were going amidst all of the devastation.

  Lydia had decided early on to make a career of the Air Force. It was unexpected for the rest of the family, but there was no denying that she loved what she was doing. She was patriotic to her core, and Brent loved that about her.