Free A Hero's Throne (An Ancient Earth) by Ross Lawhead Page A

down, he rubbed his hands in the now fairly cool ashes of the burned bedding; it was a black, greasy soot—perfect. He rubbed it on his body in long, dark strokes, making sure to build it up good and dark. He propped up a metal serving platter against the wall and used it as a mirror in order to make sure he got his face and back as well.
    When he was finished, he stepped back and looked at the dim, distorted image in the serving plate. At the most casual of glances, he’d make a passable yfelgóp, especially if he emulated their hunched posture and scrabbling gait.
    He grabbed his sword, Hero-Maker, and drew it from its scabbard. With the remaining ash, he darkened its blade, covering the brilliant shine until it only reflected a dull, oily-grey sheen. His heart pounding, Daniel did a few warm-up stretches and then padded back into the main hall.
    Time to be a hero, he thought as he crossed to the door. He paused, watchful and alert. The air that came through the small crack was not cooler or warmer or fresher, it just moved more quickly. He gently pulled the door open. Thankfully, it did not squeak or creak, and, stepping over the brown patch left by Cnapa’s blood, he was able to slip through it, only to pause briefly in the shadow of the archway. The wide, shallow steps spread before him.He noted what must be the remnants of Cnafa’s body, splayed out over several of the wide steps, the skin brown and drawn, like a Hollywood mummy, his clothes decaying, the blue threads of his shirt turned black.
    Silver lamps lit every step, making this one of the brightest areas of the city, but if he stuck by the wall, he could move in relative darkness. Skirting past the elaborately carved and highly textured wall, moving slowly, he circumnavigated the courtyard and made it to the inner wall’s gate.
    He paused a moment to catch his breath; he was already panting anxiously. From this angle, the debris pile in the courtyard didn’t seem as haphazard as it had from the window above. There were two lines of silver lamps that bisected it from the top, the ridges of what could have been stairs, and the outline of a large chair on top of it. That must be the hero’s throne.
    There were no yfelgópes in view, but he knew that a group of them were lounging on the rooftop above the building opposite the gates. Unfortunately, there were no buildings closer than thirty feet to the inner wall to provide cover. And the dark buildings might contain any number of hidden eyes. To his advantage, however, there was plenty of rubble and detritus in piles against the wall; he wouldn’t be a stark shape against a plain background, at least.
    He made his way quickly through the pile of dry corpses that lay across the gateway, trying not to think too much about what was beneath his feet, and began following his route along the outside of the Langtorr wall. He kept his back hunched, head up, and body tense and poised, trying vaguely to emulate the yfelgóp stance.
    He encountered his first yfelgóp after only a dozen or so paces. It was sleeping with its back against the wall, and Daniel found it very easy to thrust his sword through its throat and upward into the brain stem. Its eyes flicked open briefly and Daniel wondered if it was looking at him or if it was just an autonomic response.Then the eyes clouded, and the moment was gone. Not having time to wipe his blade, Daniel just gave it a few good shakes to get most of the blood off and continued his prowl.
    There were no other yfelgópes along his path, and it wasn’t until he started navigating the streets of Niðergeard that he saw any more of them—and luckily they were just forms and silhouettes glimpsed in side streets or chattering in buildings. A group of them passed twenty feet ahead of him, but he simply staggered slowly to a pile of rubble and hunkered down until they moved on.
    Daniel was getting close to the hut now—he could see the cluster of listless guards sitting in front of