When Darkness Comes by W. Franklin Lattimore (The Otherealm Saga #2)

WHEN DARKNESS COMES

Copyright Š 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 Visit the author at: www.wfranklinlattimore.com & www.bhcpress.com Also available in eBook Book design by Blue Harvest Creative www.blueharvestcreative.com

prologue present day

T

here 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.

chapter 1 843 a.d.—pictland 19 junius 843— approaching midnight “…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

D

rosten 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.

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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 river 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,

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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

1 Most researchers now agree that Pexa was a tribal name from which the name Picti or Pecti was later derived. This seems to be confirmed by the oral tradition of the Scots who call the ancient people Pechts. It used to be believed that Picti came from the Romans, who used the same word that, in Latin, means “painted” or “tattooed.”

2 Cináed mac Ailpin later took on the name Kenneth MacAlpin by which he is most widely known.

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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.

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“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.

3 To read a short description of Pecti-Wita witchcraft please proceed to the Appendix.

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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.

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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 could 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!

chapter 2 present day saturday, april 23, 2011— 10:26 a.m.

B

rent 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.

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At nearly forty-three years of age, and after twenty-four years of service, she had recently been promoted to Senior Master Sergeant. She had a goal of becoming Chief Master Sergeant before she got out. Brent knew it was a given.

Brent had also recently been promoted. His present rank sounded a little less lofty than Lydia’s, but he was proud to be a sergeant with nineteen years of service on the Millsville Police Department. While others with whom he had gone to high school had been happy to leave their hometown, Brent considered himself blessed to be able to serve the community in which he’d grown up. He knew the people and they knew him.

It wasn’t a big city, or even medium-sized, for that matter, but the 17,000+ residents were enough to keep him and his department busy. While the city had its fair share of problem citizens and passers through, there wasn’t a lot of crime— nothing major anyway. Brent was undecided as to whether he preferred the quiet or those infrequent occasions that created some excitement.

Brent took his mouse and clicked on his messages. One was from Galen Todd, his former high-school nemesis. They had reconnected on Facebook. Galen had actually sought Brent out and was excited to find that Brent had finally gotten into the social-network scheme of things. When Galen announced that he had become a Christian, it had blown Brent’s mind. He was enjoying a newly cultivated friendship with someone he’d known nearly his whole life.

The second message was from Pastor Jonathan who was now senior pastor at his home church. Jonathan’s father, Pastor Chuck, had retired about thirteen years prior, but still attended as a member of his son’s church.

Brent clicked on Pastor Jonathan’s message first.

Jonathan Sagan April 22 at 2:18 P.M. Hi, Brent. I hope this finds you and the family doing well. I know you’ve been working the past

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couple of weekends, but I was hoping that you would be available to meet with me for a few minutes immediately after service tomorrow. If not, maybe you can meet me at my office early next week.

Thank you.

Pastor Jonathan Brent raised his eyebrows for a moment. Wonder what that’s all about?

After electronically catching up with Galen, he spent the next twenty minutes reading and checking status updates and perusing the latest news updates on Japan and the pummeling of Libya. You can’t be too far off from returning, Lord. Hurry; it’s a mess down here.

Finished with the negative news of the morning, he turned off the computer and returned the laptop to his upstairs office.

Tara would be home any time now with the kids.

11:03 a.m.

At least the sunshine was making up for the still-toocold temperatures. It was a shame that she was still driving with the heat on. In Tara’s mind, the word spring should have meant a fifteen-degree jump in temps. If it’s not going to snow, Lord, at least make it warm! When had God ever answered that prayer in Ohio? She giggled softly to herself.

“What’s got you laughing?” asked Jenna, her fifteen-yearold in the passenger seat of the minivan.

“Oh, just trying to get the weather to change.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

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Tara just smiled.

Pulling into the driveway she again hit the depression in the lawn at the corner of the driveway and street, jarring everyone in the van.

“Hey! Watch it!” shot Jamie, the thirteen-year-old.

“Sorry!”

Amy, the six-year-old, laughed.

“At least someone appreciates my driving,” Tara quipped.

Jenna retorted, “Mom. Seriously. I’ll drive home from now on.”

“Ha! Not if I want to keep this latest mailbox!”

Jenna looked away in a huff. It was all Tara could do not to laugh out loud. That got her.

“Okay, everyone out!” She pressed the button to slide open the side door, allowing Amy and Jamie to vacate. “Jamie…shower.”

“Aww, mom! I didn’t even sweat.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Yep!” “Shower.”

A huff from her boy, now. She smiled to herself. “Come on out, Amy.” Amy, the Lawton princess—that’s how she truly saw herself, with green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair like her mom’s— stepped out of the vehicle with something akin to a royal air.

Her daddy’s doing. Those two were quite the pair.

Grabbing a couple of boutique shopping bags from the back of the van, Tara pressed the sliding-door button on her key chain and started for the front door of the house.

Once inside, she watched Jenna walk up to her dad, who was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, and give him a quick peck on his left cheek. He smiled.

“You need to shave, Officer Prickles.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

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Tara enjoyed watching the two of them interact. They butted heads quite often, but next thing you’d know, Jenna would be curled up under her dad’s arm as if he was the only man on Earth. She favored him in the looks category. Her hair, just past her shoulders in length, had already gone past the blonde stage and was starting to get dark, though it would never be as dark as her dad’s. She’d gotten his eyes, too.

Jenna smiled at her dad, then got up and ascended the stairs, presumably to her bedroom.

Amy walked up to her dad and promptly sat right next to him. He put his arm around her and she reached up to give him a kiss, as well. “You need to shave, Officer Prickly Face.”

Both he and Tara laughed. Brent gave his daughter a quick embrace, and said, “Okay! I’m getting the point.” He pushed himself up off the couch while Amy giggled. “I’m going to go sandpaper this face.”

“Good morning, Hon,” he said as Tara closed the front door.

“Good morning, Officer …” She paused, allowing the mischievous phrase to just hang incomplete.

Brent walked up to his wife, who placed her right hand on his cheek as he moved in for a kiss. She gave him an appreciatively-long one, then whispered, “Actually, I enjoy your scruffiness.”

He gave her a wink and headed up the stairs.

Jamie, in his white karate gi, came back into the living room from the kitchen with a glass of milk and a couple cookies on a napkin and set them down on the coffee table. Turning toward the television he made a move for an XBox controller.

“Don’t even think it, Karate Kid. Finish your snack and hit the shower.”

Jamie stood and stared at her for a long moment, probably trying to bend her will with his newly-found teenage attitude. Somehow his blonde hair and bright-blue eyes couldn’t manage to create any sense of intimidation within her. Tara smiled inwardly.

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“I mean it.”

He made to say something back, but Tara gave him ‘the look’ and he retreated to his cookies.

At least we timed it well enough to ensure that there would only ever be two teenagers in the house at the same time, Tara mused.

about the author

W. Franklin Lattimore is a graduate of Kent State University, with a B.A. in Political Science. His former involvement in the occult as a teenager was the springboard for writing the Otherealm Saga. Now a committed Christian, his books are written as a wake-up call to those dabbling in, curious about, or heavily active in witchcraft and other “spiritual� activities. His books are also designed to educate Christians on their position and authority in Christ and their responsibility to make Jesus known to their communities, while possibly taking some risks to do so.

Frank is an active volunteer in his church and in his available time enjoys hiking, biking, ziplining, fishing, riding roller coasters, target shooting, and eating crispy BBQ wings. He makes his home in Central Ohio.

Biography Photographer: Christy Brothers Christy Brothers Photography - Columbus, OH