A Hero's Throne (An Ancient Earth)

by Ross Lawhead

  He spun sharply and instantly, as fast as thought—completely out of control, but still coherent, at least. After the nausea had passed, he found the wood now before him, just as he remembered it, a line of trees along the horizon.

  He sighed but expelled no breath. Now what? The lines of the song went around in his head (Robin-a-Bobbin let fly an arrow . . . ). He tried to move forward but only succeeded in making a sort of rocking motion, which he thought at first was movement, until he shifted his perception downward and saw that the grass underneath him was not going anywhere.

  A thought occurred to him. He had made the landscape appear by focusing, so why not his body also? He tried to imagine his hand, imagine what it felt like to have a hand, imagined opening and closing it.

  The world around him faded, dimmed, as if he were squinting his eyes. A shape appeared, like a shadow image coming into focus, and his hand coalesced out of the haze. It was like looking at some strange type of optical illusion. If he tried to leave off looking at the hand and follow his gaze down the palm, to the wrist and forearm, the whole of it evaporated, so he concentrated just on the hand, and the more he did so, the more defined it was against the now dark background.

  But it was heavy, solid, like it was cast in steel. He tried to close it into a fist, but only the barest twitch of the fingers was perceptible. After a long period of exhausting thought and concentration, he could do no more than turn it. Then he was able, after a time, to tilt it downward and brush the fingertips against the grass, which he could see moved, but which gave no sensation of touch.

  He gave up his thoughts of his hand and tried instead to think of his feet. This felt more successful at first, and he was able to plant two feet firmly on the ground and experienced the feeling for the first time of being anchored to his environment, but that was it. He could not, for any desire or effort of will, make them move. He tried to visualise them moving, to feel what it was like to move them up and down. Nothing.

  Exhausted, he gave up and concentrated just on being. Focusing on the song, which he repeated like a mantra in his head—his lifeline to sanity.

  How was he going to get out of this now? How had he come here? Was he dead? He definitely wasn’t dreaming—everything felt hyper-real. Certain emotions or moods were often heightened during dreams and nightmares, but there was never such a flood of reality, however out of joint, such as he was experiencing now.

  So he was dead. But killed by what? Perhaps shot or crushed by something unseen. That was a sad thought. What would happen to everyone he’d left behind? What was he going to do now?

  The world around him had come back into bright focus again, out of the dim shades that concentration on his body brought. He gazed placidly at the treeline and remembered the first time he had made the journey across the endless plain.

  The more he looked at it, the larger it grew, and for a moment he thought that was because his “vision” was still clearing, but then he realised, with a thrill, that he was moving. The memory of having gone this way before was doing it.

  He was flying now, the ground blurring beneath him. Although he couldn’t feel in the old, familiar sense, he was aware of a rushing wind going through him. He was starting to think of himself as a sort of cloud, a phantom.

  He was going faster now, and just when he wondered how he was going to stop—if he even could stop, or if he would just fly through the woods, trunks, branches, and all—he was there at the treeline, and completely still. This is where he met Kay Marrey, the messenger from the Elves in Exile. He could almost see him standing before him. The Elves in Exile—that was a thought. Perhaps they could help him.

  Then, with dawning awareness, he found that Kay was standing before him, but not as he had last seen him. Kay was draped in a blood-red robe, and his face was bone-white.

  “What did I tell you not to do?” Kay asked.

  Daniel made to reply but had no voice. And then the apparition was gone, leaving him puzzled and alone.

  He stayed there for a time, pondering what he had just seen. Was it the ghost of Marrey that he’d summoned to him? Or was it a projection that he himself had made? Or an extension of this dream world, if it was a dream world?

  Who could help him? He thought of Kæyle, the woodburner, and the clearing where he had lived for several months and suddenly, with a blur of green and black, the view shifted to that same place.

  The scene was very much as he remembered it, but the burning pits were unused and overgrown, being neglected for some time.

  “Daniel?”

  He turned, pushing against the instinct to move his body and instead concentrated on the image at his periphery.

  Kæyle’s wife, Pettyl, was standing in the doorway of one of the small dirt huts. She was looking at the space that Daniel occupied. Again, he tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, he thought the words at her.

  What am I doing here?

  At the same moment, Pettyl also asked, “What are you doing here?”

  You can see me?

  Pettyl stared at Daniel a moment longer and then said, “Why have you come back?”

  Back?

  The memory of standing on the cliff overlooking the elfish campsite made the scene shift again, and in an instant he was standing up there again. Except now it was in the daytime, and so slightly unfamiliar. The fantastic tents and booths were missing. Was it all still a hallucination, or could he actually be in Elfland? If it was all just in his head, then why was it so different than he remembered? Still, he clung to any small piece of evidence he might not be dead.

  He saw a black form on the field below him, where the grand elfish bazaar had once stood. As he watched, it separated into three equal-sized forms and moved apart from itself. They were human—actually elfish, Daniel corrected himself—shapes. Although distant, they looked in his direction, and he had the impression they’d been expecting him.

  He took a step forward and then realised with a shock that he actually had taken a step forward.

  “Oh, thank God!” Daniel’s breath rushed out of him in a grateful, disbelieving breath. He dropped to his knees and spent a few moments running his hands up and down his body, feeling his face, wiping away tears of relief. He was dressed in the clothes he had been wearing back in the tunnels—his sort of modified armour and survival gear.

  The black shapes approached him. He rose and started toward them as well, delighting in each step he took, but gradually becoming more fearful as they neared.

  As emotionally tumultuous as the past hours had been, it paled in comparison to the tidal wave of fear he experienced as he recognised the bloodless faces. Daniel did not know the first; his bloodless face was finely chiselled and regal, even for an elf. He wore a trailing cloak that indicated an imperious dignity and funereal solemnity.

  It was the other face that drew Daniel up short. Agrid Fiall, the shady financier he had assassinated in order to leave this place the first time around. His bloodless face was screwed up in a wrathful sneer, and it looked as if he would spit poison daggers if he could.

  The third form was in the shape of Felix Stowe—the elf who had imprisoned Freya, and whom he had killed.

  “Oh man,” Daniel murmured. “I really am dead.”

  _____________________ V _____________________

  Alex was in a bit of a bind, and he frantically searched his memory.

  “Uh . . . réveillez-vous, chevaliers dormant, et . . . et . . . um, bataille avec l’Anglais. No, sorry, I mean, uh, l’Angleterre. That is—hold on, bataille pour l’Angleterre . . . POUR l’Angleterre.”

  Seven bearded, ancient French faces stared back at him blankly. They were in a sleeping chamber that was not adjoined to any tunnels. They’d had to resurface in the French countryside and follow some ancient markers to a burial ground near a place called Carnac. It wasn’t the cold, dry environment they had come to expect, but warm, slightly damp, and earthy. They had left the others at the cave exit—they were far too conspicuous t
o be travelling aboveground.

  They had found the chamber, entered it, and Alex, excited to see a full chamber of slumbering knights, went to the horn that was hanging on the wall and blew it.

  “Prys difuna yw?” the nearest knight asked.

  “Vous . . . parlez pas Français?”

  “Pytra?”

  Ecgbryt leaned in toward Alex. “How goes it?” he asked.

  “I don’t think they speak French.”

  “There may be an enchanted archway around here.”

  “What sort of—?”

  The knights shifted forward on their stone biers and moved their hands to their weapons. That was a very bad sign.

  Alex and Ecgbryt took a step back. “We shouldn’t have left the others behind,” Alex said, his hand on his sword’s hilt.

  “Pace,” Ecgbryt said. “Liss, freed . . .”

  “What are you doing?” Alex said as the knights shifted off their stone slabs and started to advance on them.

  “Quiet. Shee, kres—”

  The knights paused, just briefly.

  “Kres?” Ecgbryt said, nodding his head and holding up his palms. “Kres?”

  The knights looked at each other. A question—a doubt?—seemed to pass between them. They appeared to be in a silent debate.

  “What was that?” Alex whispered. “What all did you say?”

  “It was the word peace in as many languages as I know.”

  “Good trick. Which one finally worked?”

  “Cornish.”

  Alex groaned. “We have to be smarter than this, Ecgbryt.”

  The knights apparently resolved the issue, but not to either Alex’s or Ecgbryt’s satisfaction. They continued advancing.

  “What is taking so long?” came a voice from behind them. “We are hungry. You told us you were getting provisions and you would return quickly.”

  Alex and Ecgbryt turned in surprise. “Berwin!”

  “Thank God!” Alex said. “Talk to them—they speak Cornish. Explain who we are!”

  Berwin stepped past them and sized up the French knights.

  “How did you know to find us?” Ecgbryt said.

  “I watched you. You walked right past the settlement where all the bakers and grocers are, and you came right out into this field—”

  “Enough! Talk to them!”

  “Lowena dhis!” Berwin said and held out his arms. “Hanow Berwin.”

  The knights halted and lowered their weapons slightly.

  “Prys difuna yw?” the foremost knight repeated.

  “Ea, difuna,” Berwin answered.

  They continued their conversation, unintelligible to Alex and Ecgbryt.

  “What was that you said about an enchanted archway just now?” Alex asked.

  “You know, Ealdstan put them up at the entrances to the sleeping chambers. It’s so we can understand who finds us, whenever they find us. It seems he did not place them at all the sites.”

  “That’s an enchantment I could use.”

  “You mean . . . you never passed under one? But you speak English—I mean, my English; Old English.”

  “Yeah, that’s because I had to bloody learn it. My father drilled it into me, starting when I was eleven. I’ve talked to you, I’ve been talking to the other knights—all this time, what did you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I did think. I just assumed . . . all this time.” Ecgbryt shook his head. “Hmm. Maybe ours was the only one. No wonder your accent was so bad.”

  “Well, I believe I’ve improved, now that I’ve heard you speak it.”

  “And I thought it was just because you were Scottish.”

  “You should thank your stars it was me you came across, matey. The only other people who could have communicated with you are a bunch of old men in tweed sitting in a lecture hall in Cambridge. Enchanted archways.” Alex snorted. “So that’s how Daniel and Freya picked it up?”

  “Of course, what did you think?”

  Alex sighed. Berwin seemed to be making headway with the Bretton knights. The speech patterns were sounding a little less formal and their body language was relaxing.

  “So why couldn’t you talk to these chaps just now?” Alex asked Ecgbryt.

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the arch and all? Why didn’t the enchantment translate for you?”

  “Daniel and Freya walked under the arch. I never did.”

  Negotiations continued.

  “How many languages do you know?” Ecgbryt asked.

  “Nine or ten. Most of them dead.”

  “Latin? Norse?”

  “Aye.”

  “But not Cornish?”

  “No, not Cornish.”

  “All right,” Berwin reported, finishing his talk with the knights, which had obviously gone well since they had all put up their weapons and a few of them were smiling now. “It’s not Cornish they’re speaking, but it’s close. This region on this side of the water was once a settlement sent from our own land, you see, and we held our tongue and culture in common. Trade was good, and an alliance with—”

  “That’s wonderful, Berwin,” Alex interrupted. “You’ll have to tell us about all of that sometime. Did you tell them the situation?”

  “Yes, I’ve told them the situation. They’re willing to join us.”

  “Fan-bloody-tastic.”

  Berwin introduced them. “They tell me that they take their names out of honour for the seven founding saints of Bretagne. This is Tugdual, this is Brieg, that is Aorelian, Malou, Samsun, Kaourintin, and that is Padam over there.”

  Alex and Ecgbryt went around and clasped arms with them.

  “Now,” said Berwin, “can we at last find something to eat?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Witch Bottle

  _____________________ I _____________________

  Cardiff

  Gemma Woodcotte was thirteen years and fourteen days old, exactly—she had had her birthday two weeks earlier. She knew she was special but didn’t exactly know why. She didn’t figure this was important; she would know why when the time came. At the moment, being special simply meant that she had Possibilities. There were things she might be able to do, One Day, in that intolerably distant time that was still just the day after tomorrow. When she wrote about it in her journal—someone special should have a journal—that was how she expressed it: in capital letters.

  Her big brother, Anthony, was not special. To her mind, he had never been special, although she would readily admit that she had not known him for all of his seventeen years. For all she knew—and this was likely, for she was fond of him after all—he had been special once, when he was younger; but evidently that time had passed. Even from her limited experience, Gemma knew that Anthony had made some pretty bad choices in his life and acted incredibly silly and careless, even for a boy. He no longer played. He couldn’t imagine. He didn’t seem to have any attention for anything other than cars.

  But Gabriel had potential. He was only thirteen months old and hadn’t been spoiled yet. It was her job to protect him. And the reason he needed protecting was that every week, always on Thursday, a witch flew into his window and perched upon the edge of his crib.

  What exactly the witch wanted, Gemma didn’t know. She had seen her twice. The first time was when she went upstairs one evening to fetch a book. In the middle of a pause of silence from the blaring TV downstairs, she thought she heard a whispering coming from her brother’s room.

  Gabe was too young to be whispering, and she didn’t recognise any of the words as being his. Carefully, silently, she pushed the door open. And there was the witch, her feet balanced on the edge of the crib, her left hand against the wall, her right clinging to the window frame. The dark, ugly figure was whispering something that was hard to make out, even though Gemma strained her ears.

  . . . Is it Charles, or Curtis, or Clive?

  Cedric, or Colin, or Cal?

  Is it Casper, or Calvin, or Carl?
/>
  Christopher, Connor, or Clem?

  Is it Christian, or Cain, or Claude . . . ?

  “What are you doing?” Gemma asked.

  At the sound of her voice the witch became startled. She ruffled and flapped her cloak as if it were two wide wings and flew instantly out of the open window, as quick and graceful as a leaf on the wind. Her black, swirling form could be seen against the streetlights, and then was gone—just another shadow in the night.

  Gemma stood for a couple seconds, blinking. She had seen what she had seen, therefore she believed. Witches were real. She went into the room and closed the window, latching it firmly.

  Gabriel seemed to be fine. He was awake, and while the witch spoke to him, he appeared to listen intently. But it was a long time before he went to sleep, and he woke up early Wednesday morning—along with the rest of the house—and the whole day he was fussy and agitated.

  From that night on, Gemma was certain to check the room after her parents had put Gabe down and while they were still downstairs watching TV. She would open it a crack, stand for a time to listen in silence, and then go inside and check the windows. For an entire week, she heard nothing, but the next Thursday, as she was standing just outside, listening, she heard a rattling in the room, and then a click, and the sound of the window opening. She stood a little closer to the door, in order to hear what the witch was saying.

  Would you come away with me, darling?

  Leave your mummy and daddy at home.

  Fly away with me, little darling,

  If I call out to you, will you come?

  Would you ride away with me, dumpling,

  Leave all else behind and be free?