The Quest of the Legend (Dark Legacy Book 1)

by A. J. Cronin

  Mikha’el paces about the room, calculating.

  “The population of the city proper is quite large, so the total militia is probably close to fifty thousand capable men at any given time?”

  “More or less,” the Queen responds.

  “What about their loyalties?” Alastor questions. “Were the army and militia in good standing with Gawain before he was killed?”

  Lisa sighs.

  “That was the primary issue pressing on father for some time before the Necromancer came.”

  “How so?”

  “The army was accusing him of not supporting them properly, putting too much faith in the ability of the militia.” Alastor and Mikha’el look at one another concerned. “Why does this matter?” Lisa asks them.

  “Because, My Lady,” answers Mikha’el, “Alastor and I believed that Gawain was betrayed from within Essain, and that was how the Necromancer was able to infiltrate the kingdom.”

  “Clearly it was no infiltration,” Alastor corrects. “The army’s allegiance was bought and paid for. Hector’s doing I would wager.”

  Lisa bites her lip as tears form in her eyes. Unable to contain herself, she slams her fist on the table.

  “Damn him!”

  “This effectively means that the Necromancer has a full army under his control yet again,” Mikha’el says to Alastor.

  “Not counting whatever forces he has since brought into Essain,” Alastor replies.

  A gust of wind blows through the hall. The candles flicker but do not go out.

  Alastor sighs.

  “This then is what we will do: tomorrow, we will ride to Essain. Against whatever odds we may face, our sole purpose is to find and kill the Necromancer. Hector, Your Highness, is to be ignored.”

  “Very well,” Lisa agrees, but in her heart of hearts, Hector is now her mortal enemy. It was he that brought about the death of her father. Deep down, she craves vengeance. She wants to watch Hector bleed.

  “Mikha’el,” Alastor continues, “will take to the air, acting as our scout and guiding us along the swiftest route.” He looks into both of their eyes. “We leave at dawn. Any questions?” Lisa shakes her head, Mikha’el is motionless. “I realize that this ‘plan’ is simplistic, but we have no other avenues of action. All of our wills shall be tested, so I highly suggest spending the rest of this night in reflection and rest.” With that, Alastor stands and begins to leave them, but not before adding to Lisa: “As you may have already seen, the bedrooms are just below us on the previous level. Pick any one that suits your needs.”

  And then he is gone again. Lisa stands, pacing around the hall aimlessly. Mikha’el soon speaks softly.

  “I apologize, My Lady, for I must also depart for a time. Fear not, the night is a good night. The air is sweet, the wind fair. In this keep, with Master Alastor here, you are entirely safe. You should rest, while you can.”

  Mikha’el bows before leaping from the west balcony. Lisa watches as his wings spread open, catching the air and propel him through the night. In moments he is gone.

  Lisa is alone.

  ~-~~-~

  Lisa’s eyes wander the Cloud Hall, in her soul feeling small and insignificant within the grand scheme, whatever it may be. Lost in this brooding, she goes to find her room. Unaware of her own actions, she descends some flights too many. Like one waking from a dream, she discovers herself before a set of wonderfully carved wooden double doors, already opening them. Her breath is taken away as she beholds the room beyond. An art room, beautiful beyond words and completely out of place within the dankness of the rest of the keep.

  The art room is full of paintings and sculptures. The vaulted ceiling too is a work of art, carved with such intricate detail as to be the work of divine beings. Lisa tries to absorb the paintings; many of which are presumably of lords and ladies of the land, family portraits, landscapes of the castle, but it is almost too much to comprehend.

  She comes to one painting of what she interprets as a forest glade, in the center of which is an eternally flowing spring.

  Beautiful as the paintings are, none have meaning for her until, that is, she comes to a painting that makes her freeze in place: a portrait of the Black Knight, outside of his armor but exactly as she remembered him. It was not this alone that caught her, however. Standing next to the Knight is a young boy, no more than ten years old, grim faced far beyond his age should allow.

  “Lost, Your Highness?”

  The sharpness of the voice causes her to jump ever so slightly. She spins around to see Alastor standing in the doorway. Jolted by his abrupt appearance, she throws on a smile before answering.

  “A bit, I think.”

  “Follow me,” he says with a gesture.

  The Queen takes a final look at the portrait of Alastor and his father before following him. Returning to the hall to follow Alastor, she notices a painting that had been thrown behind the door. The painting was a portrait, but the face had been scratched off as if by claws. Before she can inquire about the, quite literally, defaced painting, Alastor shuts the art room doors and guides Lisa back to the stairs.

  “I thought I would not see you again until morning,” she says gently.

  “I remembered that you do not have a proper weapon. Your dagger, while useful if in the proper situation, will be of little use if we are drawn into a battle, and I did not want to spend the morning searching for a sword for you to use.”

  Lisa’s face hardens.

  “Do you actually expect it to come to battle?”

  “I would expect no less from the Necromancer.”

  A wave of fear washes over Lisa.

  War.

  War within the walls of Essain itself. The prospect of violence. All the pain, agony and death that will inevitably come, that might have already transpired in her absence. She feels the tears coming again.

  The sorrow.

  The helplessness.

  Alastor offers only more questions than solutions. She recalls his words about keeping fantasies and fairy tales. He was trying to buffer the shock, secretly tell her that this was not going to be as simple as summoning her fearless champion, who would then vanquish her foes leaving her and her people safe and sound.

  No, the reality was much darker. Dirtier. Unclean and far from innocent. The future was not bright and shining. It wears a black cloak, it carries a scythe and it wants nothing more than to rape the souls of the just and the damned alike in one fell swoop.

  Coming for the darkened recesses of her own mind, Lisa’s eyes adjust to the familiar sight of weapons both in piles and set on the walls. Alastor has brought her to the armory, this time paying no heed to the Black Armor. He begins sifting through the racks and mounds of swords.

  “Do you have any skill with a blade, Your Highness?”

  “Yes I do, as a matter of fact,” she answers, as she herself is now drawn to the Black Armor, taking in every detail.

  “How extensive was your training?”

  “I would have been able to join the Elite Guard had father allowed me.”

  “Elite Guard? You were trained by Gallahad then?”

  “Correct.”

  Lisa’s eyes methodically move over the Black Armor, starting at the helmet, down to the shoulders, the chest, then the arms.

  “My father spoke well of Gallahad. He was Gawain’s brother, was he not?”

  “He was.”

  Alastor makes a sound to himself, some mystery solved in his mind. Lisa does not think twice about Alastor’s questions, lost in her examination of the Black Armor. She raises an eyebrow upon discovering that portions of the armor are seemingly missing; the armor that would cover the forearms of the wearer: the bracers.

  Disappointed by the lack of worthy weaponry, Alastor stops his search. A thought comes to his mind, at first preposterous but as he further considers the ramifications, the idea he realizes is not without merit. He faces Lisa to ask her something, but she is preoccupied. He then, with a heart full of re
luctance, takes down a sword which hangs apart from the rest on the wall within a leather sheath.

  “Lisa, see how this sword suits you,” Alastor says.

  It takes all her will to let go of her visible grasp on the armor, but she does, taking the weapon that Alastor has presented to her. She takes the weapon in both hands, feeling its weight before she unsheathes it, all the while Alastor explains.

  “Despite the overly artistic nature of the sword, it is certainly battle worthy. Its edge can never be dulled, and its blade can never be broken. Legend says that it is magical.”

  Lisa examines carefully the weapon, especially the edges.

  “How old is it?” she asks, seeing unfamiliar writing upon the blade.

  “Centuries upon centuries, Your Highness.”

  “And yet, it is as though it was made just yesterday. Do you know what the writing says?”

  “It was presented by a mother to her son as a birthday present, after saving her and his sister from death.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “It is not rightfully mine. It has been in this armory for a very long time. This is, as I told you, a sort of trophy room in addition to being an armory. Seeing as its original owner is long dead, I do not think he will mind if his sword is again used for good.”

  “Thank you,” she says, sheathing the blade and smiling gratefully in acceptance of the weapon.

  “Why did Gawain not allow you to join the Elite Guard?” Alastor asks, continuing his previous line of questioning.

  “My training was conducted in secret. None were to know of it, so joining the Elite ranks would have defeated that purpose, obviously.”

  Alastor rubs his chin, putting some invisible pieces together in his mind.

  “When did Gawain have his brother train you?”

  “Shortly after the Black Knight, your father that is, visited.”

  “So then, the training was conducted under complete secrecy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even from Gallahad’s son?”

  As Lisa readies to answer, it finally dawns on her the reason for Alastor’s questions. Gallahad was the head of the Elite Guard. And Hector’s father.

  “There was a deep, battle honed bond between father and uncle,” Lisa says. “I do not believe uncle would have spoken to Hector about my training if father instructed that it was to be absolutely secret.”

  “But no doubt Hector was aware of something going on. Something that would cause some discontent to grow in him.”

  “Hector always was a jealous little rat.”

  “Every family has one.”

  Lisa smiles at this little joke.

  “Why do you ask these things?”

  “The Necromancer and his servant will expect only myself, and probably Mikha’el, of coming with the intention of fighting This gives us a much needed advantage.”

  “I understand,” she says, now seeing his line of thinking. “Tell me more about this armor, please Alastor,” she pleads, turning again to the Black Armor.

  Surprisingly, Alastor does so.

  “As I told you earlier, my bloodline is cursed, and this armor is invariably tied to each of us. Although this armor can bestow incredible power to us, the armor acts more as a sort of doorway into the best - but far more oft worst - elements of our souls. Even those with the best of intentions in their minds can, and usually were, drawn to serve evil.”

  “But your father; even in that short time I knew him, I saw no signs of one who had succumbed to darkness.”

  “My father was a rare exception, for the most part. He was one of a extremely select few who could wear the armor with minimal taint.”

  “If your father was able to wear it, then surely you could...”

  “I would rather that we did not continue this conversation,” Alastor interrupts.

  Lisa bows her head, seeing that the subject weighs heavily upon Alastor. This unspoken admission by Alastor, nonetheless, speaks volumes to the Queen. Thinking back to Alastor’s story, of the disdain shown to both him and his father, Eoin, by Rennir, coupled with Eoin’s murder and Alastor’s clear reluctance - far more than what has been revealed is going on. The more she thinks, the more it seems that Essain is merely a bit player in the middle of a far larger production.

  “Alastor, what will we do now?”

  “Sleep.”

  With his sad smile, Alastor leads Lisa back to the bedrooms. He takes her to the first room she had found, next to the room with the balcony.

  “This room should suit you, Your Highness. It was at one time the bedroom of a princess. I shall be in the room next to it, in the event you need me.”

  “Thank you, Alastor. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

  Alastor starts to walk away, but Lisa stops him, speaking up quickly.

  “I remember you now.”

  He stops, but does not turn around to face her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The day your father visited us. You were with him.”

  “And here I thought you had forgotten.”

  “I did actually.”

  “Not completely, apparently.”

  “The portrait I saw of you and he brought the memory back in full.”

  “You and I only saw each other once in the time that he was there, and even then it was only in passing. I do not blame you for not remembering.”

  Alastor takes one step, but again Lisa calls to him.

  “Where were you that day?”

  Alastor hesitates for a moment before answering.

  “Exploring the castle, naturally. I had always been told stories of your castle containing secret chambers. I wanted to find at least one.”

  “And did you?”

  “...I did.”

  Alastor does not allow for any more inquiries, swiftly retreating to his room, leaving Lisa alone in the dark hall with her little candle. Stepping into her room, closing the door behind, she looks the room over. The mere thought of the bed makes her aware of how tired the day has made her. It helps that the bed looks extremely comfortable.

  All the betrayal and revelation would have broken a lesser woman, yet she endures. The strength of her father lives on in her. She sits on the bed, placing the candle on the night stand beside it. The sword in her hand receives a second examination.

  She fantasizes about the history of the blade.

  A noble young man looking very much like Alastor saving his mother and sister from a band of thieves. Dueling them with elegant skill. A very romantic hero. She sheathes the weapon again, setting it down on the night stand before blowing out the candle.

  The unanticipated darkness startles her, for only now does she realize that the room has no windows. Laying down, she stares at the ceiling, or what she thinks is the ceiling. The pitch blackness is so deep she fears for a moment that she has actually gone blind. Lisa wishes the darkness away, like it was something that could be commanded. It is then that she takes notice of small specks of light forming before her eyes. Fearing insanity or worse, she closes her eyes and opens them again. The lights remain, their number increasing. They brighten and shimmer, bathing the bedroom in pale blue light. It strikes Lisa that the lights are in fact real; part of the ceiling. She stands on the bed, running her fingers over the lights, feeling only the smooth stone of the ceiling. She falls back onto the bed.

  Looking with a more discerning eye, the lights appear to form a familiar pattern - none other than the stars that come out at night over Essain, giving the illusion that Lisa sleeps under the night sky. The Queen cannot help but smile, wondering how these lights have come to exist. The curiosity does not last long. Before she knows it, she falls into a gentle slumber, undisturbed by nightmares.

  Alastor, unfortunately, is not so lucky.

  Chapter Nine

  Destinies of Past, Present and Future

  Alastor stands outside the castle, in a time when it was pristine. The sun shines bright, birds are
singing, Mikha’el’s race flies here and there busily, content. Citizens walk and talk happily. Alastor spins around, unable to understand what he is seeing. The stairs that lead up to the castle glisten, and a holy light emanates from within the castle itself. The wind blows gently, carrying on it a flowery scent. Alastor breathes deep this peace, a sensation he has never known.

  It does not last. It could never have lasted.

  The serenity fades. Clouds gather, darkening the sky. The winged and un-winged people alike become fearful and flee in all directions, the birds fall dreadfully silent. The air becomes no longer sweet, but cold, dank, musty and bitter. The cries of two women ring out from the castle. The emanating light becomes slithering shadow, the sky becomes turbulent. Wind howls, rain pours in torrents, lightning strikes, thunder fills the air constantly. The cries of the women become pleadings for mercy, the urgency of them growing and growing culminating in one final pleading. An inhuman roar. The women yell in pain, then nothing.

  The world still writhes, but no sound is heard.

  Alastor steels his will, striding toward the castle stairs, only to be met by an explosion of energy from the castle entrance. The force sends Alastor tumbling backwards, and leaves his ears ringing. As the Knight stands, he sees a figure emerge from the castle; tall and encased in black armor similar, but only slightly, to that which his father wore. Alastor tries to move, but his feet are locked to the ground. A strange feeling creeps up his back, flowing out to his arms and legs, and then he separates; a shadowy doppelganger in the shape of Alastor moving forward to face the armored figure.

  Alastor can only watch as they clash swords in tandem with the thunder and lightning. The armor clad figure swings wide and misses the doppelganger. The doppelganger strikes the armor clad figure, blinding Alastor with a bright white light. When sight is regained, Alastor learns that the armored figure has been struck down, the doppelganger standing triumphant over it. The doppelganger turns his back on the fallen one defiantly and readies to walk away, back to Alastor.

  With a life all its own, the sword carried by the armored figure pierces the doppelganger, but it does not kill him. Rather the armor becomes like tendrils, latching on to him. He falls to his knees, crying out in anguish. The being that had been covered by the armor grows and changes as the armor slips away from it. It becomes a creature of shadow, blood and brimstone. The hellish creature pulls its sword from the doppelganger. Alastor tries to call out to his shadowy self, but nothing comes from his mouth. The doppelganger falls to its hands, looking directly into Alastor’s eyes, reaching out with its right hand toward him.