The Lion's Crown (The Emberlyn Chronicles Book 1), page 1
Table of Contents
The Lion’s Crown
Chapter One The Bleaklands
Chapter Two Granisle Castle
Chapter Three That Which Lurks
Chapter Four The Divination
Chapter Five The House of Emberlyn
Chapter Six Night Watch
Chapter Seven The Peat Road
Chapter Eight The Fool’s Burden
Chapter Nine Wall of Fire
Chapter Ten The Black Trees
Chapter Eleven Wraith Smoke
Chapter Twelve The Motley Meadow
Chapter Thirteen The Hob House
Chapter Fourteen The Castle and the Crypt
Chapter Fifteen Wellspring
Chapter Sixteen Leviathan
Chapter Seventeen Demons
Chapter Eighteen The Hideaway
Chapter Nineteen The Rise of Dourok
Chapter Twenty The Hunters
Chapter Twenty-One Lanion
Chapter Twenty-Two Braedok’s Battle
Chapter Twenty-Three Owen’s Awakening
Chapter Twenty-Four Formless Things
Chapter Twenty-Five Happiness
Chapter Twenty-Six Attack
Chapter Twenty-Seven Henroth Valley
Chapter Twenty-Eight The Lion’s Crown
Chapter Twenty-Nine The Ember Lion
Chapter Thirty Recovery
Chapter Thirty-One Lessons
Fiction by Michael K. Rose
About the Author
The Lion’s Crown
A Novel by
Michael K. Rose
Book I of The Emberlyn Chronicles
Copyright © 2017 Michael K. Rose
Cover Design by Alexia Purdy
All rights reserved. Except for fair use as determined by 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 the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to any actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Digital Edition Published April 21, 2017; Revised August 15, 2017
Coming in September: The Lion’s Crypt, Book II of The Emberlyn Chronicles!
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Chapter One
The Bleaklands
The bog stretched for over a thousand miles. Up to ten miles wide in places, it seemed a never-ending expanse of mud and misery. It had been named the Bleaklands, and beyond it, completely surrounded by the bog, grew the forbidding Hobswood Forest.
The ring of marsh around the forest was only two miles wide here; the eastern part of the Bleaklands had, over centuries, been driven farther and farther back as the people dug out the peat and planted crops in the rich, moist soil. Here was also the ancient Fenhold, a squat, round tower that had been built in unknown times and for an unknown purpose. Its stones had withstood the ravages of at least a millennium, that much was known, but the exact date of its construction remained a mystery.
Penelope Blackmoor glanced up at the Fenhold as she thrust her shovel into the peat and leaned against it to rest. Fenhold Village, named for the tower, spread beyond it to the east. Unoccupied though it was, the tower stood sentinel between the village and the Bleaklands. It was the only thing of true permanence. It was the only thing in the village that would survive more than a generation or two.
Penelope pulled her shovel out of the ground and angled it back, removing a clump of peat, which she tossed into the cart next to her.
“Penny!” a voice called.
She looked over her shoulder and in the direction of her brother. “You could help me, Owen!”
“Penny,” Owen called again, using the nickname by which she was known to everyone in the village. He laughed, and a second later a ball of mud came arcing through the air. It landed at her feet, sending a spray of mud up at her.
She bit her lip. It didn’t matter, really; she was already covered in mud from digging peat. Owen’s head popped up from a trench that had been dug out next to the one she was working in. She couldn’t help but smile at the expression of glee that was spread across his face.
“Find any good peat for us over there, Owen?” she yelled.
“No.”
“Of course you didn’t, you lazy git. You just don’t want to do any work.”
Owen climbed the terraced side of the trench and made his way over to her. He was older than her by two years, but he had the mind of a child. Penny had always felt like the elder sibling; she had always been the one to look after him. In spite of his broad shoulders and unkempt beard, she could never picture him as anything more than a boy.
As he walked up to her, she looked down into his bucket; sure enough, it was empty. She looked again. No, not quite empty. Half a dozen worms were squirming around in the coating of mud at the bottom of the pail.
“What are you going to do with those, Owen?”
He smirked and patted his stomach.
Penny frowned and shook her head. “Suit yourself. But don’t come crying to me if you get sick.”
Owen dropped the bucket and ran, not back toward the other trench but toward the Bleaklands, toward the Hobswood. He was laughing in a way that she knew meant he wanted her to chase him, but she wasn’t in the mood for games.
She watched him to make sure he stopped, but when he didn’t, she called after him. He kept running until he disappeared over the earthen berm that had been built to keep the bog from seeping toward the village, as it had a tendency to do.
“Owen!” she called again. She dropped her shovel and went off in pursuit. As she topped the berm, she paused. The berm not only kept back the bog, it blocked the view of the Hobswood beyond. She had ventured past it only once in her life, the first time Owen had disappeared into the Bleaklands. She, her parents and half the village had gone off in search of him. He’d returned on his own, two full weeks later, but he had never been the same after that. His mind had been somehow affected by the experience.
Penny looked out across the Bleaklands. It was tricky, that bog. Even though it was flat and wide, and one could normally see the big black trees of the Hobswood beyond it, things in the Bleaklands could disappear from sight. It was as though they had passed into a fog where there was no fog.
Penny held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the bright but overcast sky. Today, there was a slight mist on the bog. To her right, she caught a glimpse of movement. For a second she thought she saw Owen running, but then he was gone.
She began to move down the other side of the berm but stopped. She couldn’t do this alone. No one went into the Bleaklands alone. No one except Owen. Once or twice a year he did this. So far he’d always returned, never seeming worse for wear. She’d always been too afraid to go looking for him before, but this time there was a dread in her heart that went beyond the usual fear of the bog. This time, she felt that he might be in real danger.
She turned and ran past the tower and into the village. She turned to the left, sped along a row of huts which included her own and began waving her arms as she spotted George Ashberry. “Owen’s gone into the bog again!”
George was standing by his anvil, under the roof of the porch connected to the side of his barn. He dropped the horseshoe he’d been shaping and went to her. He grabbed her by the arms and studied her eyes for a moment before speaking. “Right,” he said, reading the concern in her eyes. “I’ll get some others. You wait here.”
Penny stood by George’s hut, scratching his donkey behind the ears. A few minutes later, George returned leading a party of four other men. Penny scowled as she saw that James Tupper was among them.
“That idiot brother of yours is going to get us all killed some day,” Tupper said. The cruel look he always wore on his face deepened. “Why do we have to go after him anyhow? He always comes back sooner or later, doesn’t he?”
“Not now, Tupper,” George said. He turned to Penny. “Which way did he go?”
“I last saw him heading northwest but angling toward the Hobswood.”
Without another word, the six of them set off for the berm. They knew it was no good waiting and planning. Owen’s movements could not be predicted. If they were going to go after him, it was best to just go.
They crossed over the berm and down into the bog. It wasn’t too deep in some places, and the darkest water could easily be avoided. Still, Penny found herself thigh-deep in mud several times as they made their way into the Bleaklands. Once or twice she thought she spotted Owen, but as before, it had only been a momentary flash of movement.
They gradually spread out as they moved farther into the bog. Penny found herself on the right end of the line of searchers, and the man closest to her, James Tupper, began to fade from view. She stopped and turned toward where she’d last seen him. Anywhere else, he would be as clear as the hand in front of her face, but in the Bleaklands, he was all but invisible. Even sound got lost in the Bleaklands. She stood still, holding her breath, but she couldn’t hear the voices or the squelching footsteps of the men.
Another trick of the bog began to take hold. Was she at the north
Penny stood still for what seemed like ten minutes. It could have been fifteen. Time meant nothing here. Finally, she picked a direction and began walking. The bog seemed to grow darker and deeper as she moved. Did that mean she was going farther into it? There was no way of telling. There was no consistent pattern to anything in the Bleaklands. Deeps and shallows were spread all across it. She walked for half an hour, then an hour, and was about to stop when suddenly, great black trunks loomed up in front of her. They hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now the wall of leafless black trees that marked the edge of the Hobswood Forest was stretched out before her. And standing just inside that boundary, next to one of the thick trunks, was Owen.
He was looking into the Hobswood, at a black tree with a large round hollow in its trunk. Inside the hollow it was as dark as night, and it looked deeper than seemed possible. She thought she could hear Owen softly talking to the hollow. Not wanting to give him reason to run, she held her tongue and slowly moved toward him. As she reached the tree he was standing beside, his whispers dropped off. She froze. Had something had answered him?
She couldn’t wait any longer. “Owen,” she whispered.
Her brother looked back at her. His customary grin was gone, and his eyes were filled with what looked like profound sadness.
“Come to me, Owen,” she said, holding out her hand.
He obeyed her, and as he reached her, Penny pulled him into a tight embrace. “It’s time to go home.”
She felt him nod against her shoulder. As she looked past him toward the hollow, she thought she saw a shadow move. She pulled him back out into the Bleaklands, where the light now seemed brighter than it had a few moments before. A drizzle of rain began to fall, but she could now clearly see across the bog. The tower of the Fenhold rose up beyond the berm, showing the way home.
Across the two miles of the Bleaklands, she didn’t once let go of Owen’s hand. She kept her eyes on the Fenhold and didn’t dare look anywhere else. She barely trusted herself to blink.
By the time they reached the berm, the tight knot in her stomach was nearly gone, and Owen’s smile had returned. He was talking about the worms in his bucket and making sickening slurping sounds with his mouth. They crossed over the berm and George Ashberry, James Tupper and the other men came into view. They were standing in a circle near the tower, deep in conversation.
George spotted them and ran over, relief washing across his face. “Where were you? Where did you find him?”
“Just at the edge of the Hobswood.”
Four pairs of eyes darkened.
James Tupper strode forward and cast an evil glare at Owen. “Did he go in?”
“No,” Penny lied. “I found him before that. Look at him; he’s fine.”
Tupper looked Owen up and down and finally nodded, still scowling. “Right. But that’s the last time I go in there after him. Only did it this time because George made it seem so urgent. I just hope he hasn’t brought trouble to the rest of us.”
“It’s all right now,” George Ashberry said. “Thank you for your help.” He smiled at the other men and watched as they turned back toward the village, muttering to one another. “Did he go in?” he asked Penny, his voice low.
She nodded.
“I feared as much. It may mean nothing.”
“Are you going to tell the others?”
“Only if it comes to it.” He winked at her then clapped Owen on the shoulder. “No more adventures, eh, young man?”
Owen just grinned.
As Penny led him back to their hut, she remembered she’d left her shovel and peat cart at the edge of the Bleaklands. She looked over her shoulder, but the sky was darkening, too soon, it seemed, for this time of year. She could retrieve them in the morning. Owen needed cleaning up and looking after. She couldn’t take him back to the bog with her, and she wouldn’t leave him alone, not now.
Like nearly all the homes in Fenhold Village, theirs was a stick-framed, mud-covered hut. Inside was a single large room with animal skins and sheets dividing it up and providing some privacy. In one corner was a mudbrick fireplace and chimney with a pile of dried peat stacked beside it. She started a fire and, almost in a daze from exhaustion, cleaned, changed her clothes then made sure Owen was washing up properly. With their parents gone, she had to be a mother to him. He could sometimes be convinced to aid with the heavy labor, but he was otherwise all but helpless. Even more problematic was the fact that he would obey no one but her. She couldn’t send him to work for anyone else unless she was also there. So he mostly ended up helping—and sometimes hindering—her own work. Fortunately, the lord who owned the land that they worked was kind and understanding of their situation. He gave Owen his full share at harvest time, no matter how much work he did or didn’t do. Along with the small garden plot behind their hut, they had enough to live on—as much as anyone else in the village. Hunting the small game that infested the fields added a bit of meat to their diet, and since the Bleaklands were considered a public commons—it was too large and hazardous to try to enforce any claim over it—peat that she harvested could be traded or sold to merchants who traveled along the Peat Road that ran along the edge of the Bleaklands then back east to the capital and the large coastal cities of the Kingdom of Emberlyn. This helped provide them with whatever else they might need for basic survival.
After cleaning, she made rabbit stew for their dinner then sat listening to the sounds of the village fade away. The people of Fenhold Village were reluctant to go out of doors after the sun set. Even with the berm blocking it from view, the Hobswood was close—almost close enough to touch, it sometimes seemed. And today, Penny had touched it. She’d rested her hand against one of those leafless black trees—trees which grew even though they seemed dead.
From his cot on the other side of the hut, Owen began to snore. As far as she knew, the two of them were the only ones from the village who’d ever ventured that close to the Hobswood and returned. But stories had been passed down from time immemorial. It was said that whoever went into the wood and returned could bring things back with them. That’s what James Tupper had meant by “trouble.” If they were lucky, it’d be nothing more than a hob, a small, mischievous creature that could even be helpful if the mood struck it. If unlucky… Penny didn’t want to think about the other things that were said to inhabit the Hobswood, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d heard the stories told and retold since she was old enough to understand the words. Despite her fear, sleep finally overtook her, but in her dreams she again saw those enormous black trees, she again heard Owen whisper… and something whisper back.
Chapter Two
Granisle Castle
Sir William Carlyle had been to the city of Granisle once before, but never inside the castle. He stared in awe at the sight below the window. He’d been given a room in one of the castle’s towers—there were six in all—and his room looked out toward the great canal that had been dredged between the two principle rivers of Emberlyn, the Stout and the Deerford. The canal had been dug before the unification of the kingdoms which now made up Emberlyn, when a dozen lords and self-proclaimed monarchs had warred with one another for control. When Edward the First finally emerged victorious and united the Eastern Kingdoms, he took Granisle as his capital. For generations, people had been sending surplus grain for safe storage on the island which had been formed by the digging of the canal.
When the construction of Granisle Castle began, Edward the First knew that this tradition should not be broken, that the people who lived near the confluence of the two rivers had come to rely on the stockpile in times of famine, and while the castle dominated one half of the island, the granaries extended across the other half. All the way down to the edge of the canal were row upon row of long, low stone buildings. Each was windowless and entered through a single large door, and beside each door stood a guard box. The contents of those granaries could feed the kingdom for three months, if the need arose. Emberlyn’s wealth was in grain as much as gold.
