“That is the name I gave you, is it not?”
“It is, but I prefer the name mother gave me.”
“Leon?”
“I earned it, did I not? Was it not you that taught me that a man earns his identity through his actions?”
“That I did. Very well... Leon... I have a task for you. Quite important it is.”
“I am listening, father.”
“I need you to travel east, to Elenesia, and deliver this personally to their king.”
Cain stands, handing Leon a scroll with a seal of black wax.
“What is this?”
“An offer of alliance,” Cain says with a cunning smile.
Leon holds it, staring at it with a sense of foreboding. He looks to his father with gloom in his eyes.
“Lord Cain,” a voice booms.
In walks a member of the Valachian Royal Guard.
“What is it?” Cain demands.
“Your guest has arrived. He awaits in your study.”
“Excellent!” Cain exclaims. “You are dismissed, captain. Let my illustrious guest know I will be there soon.”
The guard leaves with a bow. Cain turns back to Leon.
“This letter is to reach the Elenesian king in no less than three days, so you need to be off within the half hour. Do not bother to say farewells to your mother and sister, they are already aware of this little task.”
Leon looks into his father’s eyes. He knows the price of failure, and he knows the price of refusal is even worse. Not even the Son of Cain is free from wrath. Leon simply tucks the scroll into his coat, bows, and leaves.
Outside the castle, Leon’s horse has already been prepared, packed with provisions. As he mounts, a young woman with beautiful blue eyes runs from the castle directly to him.
“Leon!” she shouts, trying to keep him from leaving. “Where are you going?”
Her brown hair is braided fancifully, face contorted by worry.
“Father is sending me to Elenesia, Charlotte.”
“And you would leave without letting your own sister know?” she asks, almost hurt.
Leon looks back to the castle, spite written on his face.
“Father told me that you and mother already knew.”
“Father said nothing of you leaving to me, and had mother known she would have stopped you from going all together.”
Leon and Charlotte look at each other, a silent understanding passing between them.
“Well, now you know,” Leon smirks, trying to lighten his sister’s mood. “I must leave now if I am to arrive in my allotted time.”
“When will you be back?”
“Four or five days, if the roads are clear and the weather is good.”
Charlotte examines her brother’s animal and the packs it carries.
“Wait right here!” she cries before running back into the castle.
Leon waits a moment, but begins to set his animal toward the road, fear of disobeying his father greater than the possibility of hurting his sister. Just as he is about to whip at the reins, Charlotte reappears carrying a leather bound item.
“What is that?” he asks.
Charlotte removes the leather wrapping, revealing a sheathed sword.
“You cannot travel abroad without brining Lionkiller with you, brother,” she says as she presents the sword to Leon.
Leon laughs as he takes the sword.
“I have not seen this since... wait, I thought father had this destroyed?”
“So did he, but I ‘liberated’ it and have kept it safe for you.”
Leon lays the sword relevantly across his lap.
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
Leon caresses the sheathe like a childhood pet.
“You are most welcome, Leon.”
“I will see you when I return.”
With a reserved smile, Leon starts south down the main road which divides Valachia, stretching from the castle to the southern border. As he passes the outer wall which encases the castle and its court, he turns back to Charlotte and waves, and she does the same with a worried smile.
The city is busy, with trade carts crisscrossing the streets, carpenters building, women in front of their houses sewing in groups while the children play. The people do not overtly acknowledge Leon, instead giving a smile and a nod, which he returns subtly; a subtle sign of respect between the Son of Cain and the subjects of his rule. Leon after some time comes to the center of Valachia, where stands a beautiful fountain of black-brown marble, imported from some kingdom he could not care less about.
At the fountain, the main road splits into four, one for each point of the compass. The Valachian prince takes the eastern road, the longest of the four. Before coming to the eastern border, Leon passes the older homes of Valachia, where many of the earliest families resided, and have since been converted into vast mansions. He also passes the better markets, the superior smiths and, finally, the barracks, training compounds and sparring fields of the Valachian Dread Knights, the backbone of the Valachian Royal Army.
All of the four entrances into Valachia are guarded by the army, but only the eastern gate is protected by the Dread Knights, both to defend the wealthy of Valachia, and to guard against the kingdoms of the east, where many kingdoms not part of the Valachian Empire reside, some opposed to Valachia zealously. Elenesia is the closest and, luckily for Leon, the most neutral of these.
As Leon nears the gate house, the Dread Knight on duty stops him.
“Halt! Citizens have no business...”
The guard instinctively stops speaking as he sees the man on the horse.
“What do I have no business doing?” Leon asks, speaking in such a tone as to sound threatening. A tone that works quite well.
The guard’s face is drained of blood as his mind finally comprehends completely who he sees.
“Prince Alastor, do forgive me. I meant no disrespect, my orders were to keep the draw bridge up and to turn away any who tried to exit by this gate.”
“Who gave you these orders?”
“The King himself, sir.”
Leon shakes his head in amused disbelief.
“Well, soldier, I am also under order from the King; I am to travel east, so if you wish to keep your head, lower the draw bridge so that I may leave. Please.”
“Y–y-yes, Prince Alastor.”
The Dread Knight guard runs into the gate house with all haste. In moments the bridge is lowered and the gate is opened. Leon crosses, looking down to the river below. Once on the opposite side, the bridge is raised back up.
~-~~-~
The landscape beyond Valachia could not be any more different than that within the kingdom. Laying in persistent barrenness, a vast stretch of dry earth, hills and mountains. Grass does not grow, and only the heartiest of shrubbery exists. The trunks of dead trees still stand tall, now home to any assortment of foul, dark creatures. A long, weather beaten stone road, decrepit and forgotten, is the only one to be found in this wilderness and is thus what Leon travels upon.
The road twists and swerves around rocks and hills and the stumps of massive trees, but it always falls back into a direct eastern route. A deep loathing for his task stirs in Leon, accompanied with that too familiar apprehension. He grips the hilt of Lionkiller, constantly looking to and fro in constant vigil, nervously waiting for some unseen foe to jump out from the dead land and attack him for what he is soon to do.
Carrion fowl duel in the air, protecting territory or, much more likely Leon thinks, a fresh kill. The relatively flat earth eventually gives way to steep rises and falls, some close, some which extend for a mile or more. By the time the sun has descended, Valachia has become impossible to see, now nothing more than a shade of a memory, alive only in Leon’s thoughts.
The moon hangs low in the sky, so close one might simply reach out and touch it. In the brilliant light of the night-sun, Leon makes the decision to continue onward for a few more miles. When the time does come for him to
stop and rest, the Valachian prince happens across a lone tree standing upon a hill, still in full bloom. He dismounts beneath the wondrous boughs of this magnificent tree, and finds at its roots a small spring, fresh water constantly flowing into it from the ground. Both he and his horse drink deep from this spring which has kept this tree thriving in an otherwise dead land. The water has the effect of filling his stomach, sending hunger far away from his thoughts. After drinking his fill, Leon reclines against the tree, grip firm on Lionkiller, and allows himself to fall asleep.
~-~~-~
With the dawn comes a piercing cold. Leon rummages through the packs on his horse, finding only dried meat and stale bread. Cain knows how to feed his messengers well. He throws much of the bread to the wayside, making a meal from the meat and the spring water. After eating he mounts up, sets back upon the old road and casts a parting glance at the tree and its spring.
The morning portion of the ride is uneventful, save for passing by the remains of a lake bed, now nothing more than a dried pit of sand and bones. When afternoon advances he foregoes any rest. The thought of delaying rekindles his fear of Cain’s anger.
Leon becomes restless in spite of himself, the trek starting to feel like nothing more than a test of patience amidst tedium. When he thinks he might be numbed by the absolute lack of stimulation, the eastern lands readily bring to front their cruel reality. Not a half mile away, Leon can see smoke rising up; a nomad encampment is being pillaged, but no sounds does he hear. Leon brings his animal to a full gallop, riding toward the encampment in the hopes that he might be able to help.
Riding into the nomad camp, Leon finds no one in need of assistance. The tents are naught but empty shells filled with straw dummies. The instant the Valachian prince comes to the realization of this camp’s true nature, an arrow flies, coming within a hair’s breadth of his horse’s head, causing it to rear and send Leon flying off, crashing to the ground. Riotous, deep growls and cries scare the horse further away. Leon stands, keenly aware that he is being surrounded. When fully upright, he can see his assailants: rough, savage looking brigands. Based on their manner of dress and poorness of their cloth, Leon deducts that they are Sand Pirates; a loose confederacy of outcasts from numerous kingdoms that wander the east, waiting for their opportunity to strike unsuspecting travelers, stealing what they can, taking slaves and killing what displeases them.
“Well what have we here, boys?” speaks their leader. “A would be hero for a village of scarecrows!”
The Sand Pirates laugh, but Leon does not move or speak, using their moment of mirth to take stock of their numbers. Directly before him is the leader, with four men flanking him. Based on the way their eyes move, Leon gathers that there is a similar number behind him.
“Seeing as he is coming from the west, I think he just might be Valachian, boss,” says the man closest to the leader.
“I would have to agree. Tell me, boy... what is your name?” the Sand Pirate leader demands.
Leon thinks swiftly. They already know he is Valachian, which would mean they know of Cain. The mere mention of Cain usually strikes dread into the hearts of men, and likewise those associated with the King.
“Alastor,” the Valachian prince blurts out.
The Sand Pirates laugh, but their leader’s previously strong face changes. He raises a hand for immediate quiet. The silence continues for a spell while the leader weighs this turn of events. In this time Leon becomes aware that in his hands he holds Lionkiller, still wrapped in its leather like a baby in a blanket.
“You are Alastor, the Valachian prince?” the leader finally speaks.
“I am called such by some.”
“Son of Cain?”
“Unfortunately.”
The leader unsheathes his sword, pointing it at Leon.
“I want his head,” he calmly says to his men.
The Sand Pirates act without delay. As they close upon him, Leon unsheathes Lionkiller. With nimble and decisive movements, he attacks the Pirates before they react to him. He kills one after another with blinding fast, powerful strokes, each maneuver well planned to avoid counter attack.
The dust settles. Leon is emotionless as he looks upon the bodies of his fallen foes. His eyes move to Lionkiller, once brilliant silver, now crimson red. For the first time in its existence, Lionkiller has tasted the blood of man and it would not be the last. Leon kneels, cleaning his blade on the cloth of the Pirates and putting it back into its sheathe. Without a care, he leaves the false encampment and the Sand Pirates to the elements, following the tracks of his runaway horse.
Leon’s horse has managed to get itself stuck in a briar patch. The prince takes the horse out carefully, doing his best to calm the animal before continuing on the road. Leon grows oblivious to the world around him. Clouds gather unnaturally fast, break open and unleash a torrent of heavy rain on the eastern lands. He unsheathes Lionkiller, letting the rainwater purify the weapon. He stares at the blade, hypnotized by its beauty. The sword conjures ghosts, long thought to have been left to the grave. Leon struggles with his heart, finally raising his eyes to heaven.
“By all things holy, please do not let me become like him. I cannot, will not, endure such a fate!” Leon pleads to whomever might be listening.
The rain does not stop, lasting into the evening and beyond.
Soaking wet, Leon finds refuge in a shallow cave just large enough to shelter him and the horse. The whole of the night slips by, dreamless and uncomfortable, culminating in Leon waking in a pool of rain water in the morning. The rain itself has finally lessened into a mere drizzle. Hunger strikes, so he goes to examine what remains of his food. The rest of the stale bread is now all but ruined, nothing more than mush at the bottom of the pack, but the meat is still edible, so Leon is not forced to go without some sustenance.
~-~~-~
Although the sun is hidden by the clouds, making tracking it near impossible, by Leon’s reckoning after only two hours of travel he comes to the first signs of true civilization: houses of brick and stone, farms and paved roads. At a three-way crossroad, he is forced to stop. Many of the people are indoors on account of the rain, however hospitality would be lacking even in the summer. Shutters are closed against the stranger at first sight of him with each house he comes near, except one. An older woman steps out from her home, standing under the awning of her porch.
“Lost?” she asks.
“Which road will take me to Elenesia?” inquires Leon.
“The one to your left, good sir. It is not far.”
“Thank you.”
Leon starts to follow the woman’s instruction, but she calls after him.
“A word of caution, good sir: whatever it is that you have come for, do not tarry long in Elenesia.”
“I have only come bearing a message,” he says without bothering to face her.
“Deliver it, and then ride home with all haste. As is the nature of Lions, they roam about, seeking whom they might devour... but I do not need to tell you, of all people, do I?”
Leon twists in his saddle to look to the old woman, but she is gone. He starts to go to her house, but he seems to hear Cain’s voice in his mind. A voice from years past, warning him of what would happen if son crossed father again. Leon trots back to the roads, taking the left most as the woman told him.
The population increases the further along he travels, and so too does the quality of construction, the mud brick homes giving way to exquisite houses and mansions and stores built from rare varieties of stone and other exotic materials. These streets too are closed against Leon. If not for the smoke from chimneys and the light that peers out from behind the shutters, one might think this city deserted. He soon passes through a thick wall which divides this apparent lower class from the even larger and more ornate houses and shops which reside within Elenesia proper. Leon is struck by the lack of any sort of gate with which to bar passage into the city, the wall apparently doing little more than marking the city limit
.
His mind ticks with all the tactical mistakes in the city design. He fantasizes about how easy it would be to take the city, about hoisting the banner of Valachia high above it. He shakes these thoughts out. They are not his, but his father’s. He tries to see Elenesia through the eyes of one who has not lived in Valachia his whole life. It is quaint, not without its charms, but he does not care for the overall architecture. Perhaps, he thinks, the marble which forms many of the Valachian buildings has wormed its way into his blood, making him partial to it even in light of his hatred for his own kingdom. All things considered, Elenesia is the most developed kingdom which rests outside Valachian influence he has yet seen. Which is actually not saying much, as the few places Leon has seen were small, insignificant towns at best, hovels belonging to barbarian heathens at worst.
The Elenesian palace now comes into his view, set in the center of the city. Unlike the city, devoid of people, the palace is well guarded, with patrols going their rounds and two fairly large guards at the entrance. Leon is stopped by these two as he nears them.
“What business have you here?” the larger of the two guards asks hoarsely.
“I am a messenger from Valachia,” Leon answers, not risking to reveal his true identity again.
The guards eye him harshly, looking to one another, then back.
“Give the message to us, and we will give it to our king.”
“I am to deliver it personally.”
Leon dismounts, standing nearly a foot taller than the guards. They pretend to not notice his intimidating stature, instead turning their eyes to a more manageable threat: Lionkiller, which Leon holds in his left hand.
“Surrender your weapon, and we shall escort you to our king.”
Leon obliges by handing over Lionkiller with false submissiveness. The guards then wheel around, leading into the palace. A darkness grips at Leon’s heart, his task now about to be completed, he cares not to drink in the splendor of the palace. Inside, they come to an open plaza, where countless powerful men and beautiful women are gathered, jovial of speech and light hearted. Could it possibly enter their darkest dreams what manner of man has just walked into their midst? Leon thinks to himself. Servants move in and out of the gathered with food and drink. A glint of detest arises in Leon in response to how these people carry themselves with their wantonness; shades of his father’s attitudes concerning those people and faiths outside of Valachian territory. This thought, however, Leon does not try to chase away.
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