by A. J. Cronin
“Where am I?” he groans.
“Judeheim, sir.”
A familiar voice. As his eyes adjust, he finds Isolde’s maid leaning over him.
“I remember you. I never did thank you for the food, and I never found out your name.”
“My name is Cardea, sir.”
“Well, Cardea, why am I here?”
“After Sir Uri’el brought you to my King, you were overcome by - ”
“I remember that part,” Leon interrupts, “what happened after that?”
“You were in a mania for a long time, sir. Skirting between sleep and wake. You would thrash madly, yelling, cursing... lamenting. Only in the last two weeks have you been at peace.”
“Two weeks? How long has it been since that day?”
“Just over three months, sir.”
Leon rubs his forehead, unable to believe he has been incapacitated for so long.
“Why am I here rather than in Taranis’ kingdom?”
“You were, for a time,” a voice calls from the doorway.
Leon sits up to see Uri’el. Uri’el walks into the room, gesturing kindly for Cardea to leave. Leon cannot help but stare at Uri’el; he now wears an eyepatch, the scar on his face very prominent, but the ones on his body now nearly faded.
“What dictated that I should be brought here?” asks Leon, ignoring any formalities.
“When in your mania you began to speak, and more often rant, about Samael.”
“Samael?” repeats Leon. “Yes. Cain mentioned Samael.”
“We know. Once you are dressed and feel up to it, we all have something we want to discuss with you.”
“And who might this ‘we’ you speak of be?”
“Taranis, Isolde, myself and the elders of the Judeheim High Council.”
“If that is their wish, I shall do so.”
Uri’el nods, leaving while Cardea returns carrying clothes for Leon. Leon can see that in the short time she was gone, she had been crying.
“Clothes for you, sir,” she says meekly.
“Why were you crying?”
“Perhaps it would be best to explain after you have spoken to my King and the others, for what they have to say is of greater importance.”
Before Leon can tell her of how he does not rightly care about what they have to say, she leaves without another sound. Leon climbs out of bed, nearly falling as he tries to stand, having not used his legs for so long. He dresses in the clean clothes and finds Uri’el waiting outside his room. Uri’el and Leon do not speak on the way to the Council chamber within the Judeheim citadel. There, Taranis and Isolde are deep in conversation with three elders. Taranis stands, smiling at seeing Leon awake and well.
“Leon, it is good - ”
“Leon is dead,” the former Valachian prince quickly interrupts.
“What do you mean?” implores Isolde, alarmed and fearful that something might be wrong with him.
“Leon died upon the steps of Valachia castle. I am Alastor, nothing more.”
Cardea has snuck in, hiding in the shadows, listening intently, while the others look at each other, unsure how to respond. The Queen stares into the eyes of this man who looks like Leon, finding little else but an empty shell. She faces her husband on the verge of tears then sits down.
“Very well,” says Taranis. “Please sit... Alastor.”
“I would rather stand.”
“As you wish,” Taranis assents while he and the elders all sit.
“I suppose the first thing we should do is appraise you of the current state of the lands,” speaks one of the elders.
“Yes,” says another, “In the time since you have been... unwell, Alastor, much has changed.”
“Cain had begun a complete conquest of every kingdom, city and village he came across,” begins Taranis. “But at his every move he has faced opposition, slowing him down drastically. His army has been decreased into nothing but a few remaining survivors, however he himself cannot be stopped.”
“Numerous kingdoms and cities, even those once peacefully allied with Valachia, now fight actively against him,” adds Isolde. “There is not a kingdom in these lands that has not taken sides and become involved in one way or another.”
“Where is Cain now?” Alastor asks.
“He was last seen heading to a little city that had previously gone relatively unnoticed: Arkelon,” Taranis answers. “By God’s good grace, the people have been able to flee long before Cain should arrive.”
“Cain’s tactics make no sense,” an elder speaks. “Arkelon poses no significant threat, nor advantage.”
Alastor grows tired of hearing these things, grows tired of their apparent blindness.
“Who is Samael?” he suddenly, and almost angrily, asks.
“The enemy of the nameless God,” the elder answers. “Everything that he is, good, just, Samael is the exact opposite. Why?”
“And what is the faith of Arkelon?” Alastor continues, trying to make these small men think just a little bit.
“Like us, and Essain, Arkelon are servants of the nameless God.”
“Why do you bring up Samael so suddenly, Alastor?” asks another elder. “You spoke of him in your mania, but none of us could get a solid answer from you.”
Alastor looks into every set of eyes aimed at him before answering.
“Cain has made a pact with Samael, sacrificing his wife and daughter, and in exchange Samael wrought a suit of unnatural armor.”
The three elders look to one another, understanding Alastor’s words before anyone else.
“God help us... Samael has created his agent,” cries the most senior of the elders. “Alastor, is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Aside from the armor, Cain was... changed.”
“Changed? How so?”
“Inhuman strength, physical abilities, and apparently, near immortality.”
“How do you know that?”
“I fought with him briefly. In terms of strength, we were evenly matched.”
“I do not understand,” says Isolde, confused.
Alastor steps forward and picks up the large wooden table which they all sit at with a single hand. They all gasp, and Alastor sets the table back down.
“Whatever Samael did to Cain, it has had an effect upon myself as well. My horse died before I reached Valachia, and I ran on foot the rest of the way. The gates were barred, and I broke through them. Above all, Cain impaled me, broke open my head and gave me a sword strike that should have cut me in half, yet here I am, quite alive.”
“What does this mean?” Taranis asks the elders.
“Cain’s path of destruction makes sense now,” says the elder closest to him, grasping finally what Alastor was trying to force them to understand. “He has been traveling between those places that swear loyalty to the nameless God.”
“But, there has been heathen kingdoms which were destroyed.”
“Only because they stood in his path, Taranis. Fighting against him because of their hatred of Valachia, which makes them his enemies all the same.”
“I see...”
“What can we do?” Isolde asks the elders.
“Samael’s agent he might be,” Alastor speaks, “Cain is still a man with an overdeveloped sense of vanity. He would not abide any challenge to his strength.”
“What are you proposing, Alastor?”
“I am proposing you send word to your allies that Alastor, son of Cain is alive and well, waiting for his father in Essain.”
“Is that wise?” Taranis asks. “You just got through telling us he is probably invincible.”
“If he is, then we are all damned regardless.”
The elders, Taranis and Isolde all exchange glances.
“Alastor, can you leave us so that we may discuss this matter?” asks the elders.
“Of course,” Alastor answers with a sarcastic sneer.
Alastor leaves coldly, passing Uri’el without so much as a nod or gesture. C
ardea rushing after him.
Alastor leans against the citadel with his arms crossed, staring at the remains of snow on the ground. Cardea slowly walks in front of him.
“It is true then, I suppose?” she asks him.
“What?” he replies without looking up.
“Charlotte and Elizabetha. They are dead?”
“How do you know about them?”
“Charlotte and I were best friends when I was growing up in Valachia.”
“I do not remember seeing you.”
“Why would you? You spent most of your time training or engaged in some other nonsense.”
“That sounds like me,” Alastor says, looking up at Cardea. “If you were Valachian, how did you become Isolde’s maid?”
“My father saw what Cain was coming to, and moved our family to Essain while he could still do so without arousing suspicions of disloyalty. Charlotte and I would write to each other, but the letters stopped when Taranis cut off trade.”
Tears form in Cardea’s eyes as she thinks about her departed friend. Alastor lowers his head again.
“I would hate to think of what she told you about me,” he thinks aloud.
“She wrote only the best of you, I promise.”
Cardea begins to cry uncontrollably. Alastor pulls her to him, the two embracing in their shared sadness. They stand outside the citadel, unaware and not caring of the goings on of the rest of the city. Alastor holds her tight, even though he is not sure why. He has never had the desire to hold anyone, nor a real reason to. In holding her, something inside changes. Possibly. After a time, Uri’el, Taranis and Isolde exit together. Alastor and Cardea separate.
“What was decided?” Alastor asks.
“We will return to Essain as soon as you are ready,” Taranis answers.
“We can leave now, then. I have no reason to remain here.”
They waste no time with farewells, retrieving their animals from the stables, buying a new horse for Alastor and setting out for their home. Uri’el flies on ahead to Essain by order of the King. Alastor does not speak to anyone, but rides next to Cardea. Although he looks at her occasionally, he cannot bring himself to speak with her; every time he tries, his mind fills with images of his mother and sister and, more morbidly, how they may have been killed. Even with these imaginings he feels nothing. He shows no emotion. He cannot. This lack of feeling should frighten him, he thinks, but it does not.
The ride is slow. There is no need for them to hurry at this point in time. When night finally falls, Taranis leads them to a glade not far off the road. With Alastor’s aid they start a nice, large fire. Taranis and Isolde lay near the fire, looking up at the stars. Alastor slinks away, sitting at the foot of a willow, as far away from the light of the fire as possible, leaving Cardea alone. The young woman lays down, eyes fixed on Alastor, watching his motionless form until she falls into slumber.
In the morning, Cardea is the first to wake, or so she thinks. Alastor has not moved at all, still staring into nothingness. She stands, quietly walking to him, kneeling beside him.
“Have you been awake all night?” she asks.
“I could not sleep, even if I wanted to. I have no desire to see the phantoms my mind might create.”
“Really? I sleep so that I can dream.”
“Do you?”
“When I dream, I can see things as they were. Sometimes, I can see what is, and at other times I can see that which gives me great hope.”
“What might that be?”
“I dream about the things which will be.”
“You can see the future?” asks Alastor, curiosity written in bold on his face.
She simply nods, smiling.
“May I ask you a question?” she asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Everyone does.”
“Ask your question,” he tells her after a moment’s hesitation.
“How did you receive the name Leon? Charlotte always called you by that name, but never explained its origin.”
Alastor thinks about whether or not he wants to answer, debating with himself.
“When I had reached my eighteenth year, mother commissioned a sword, made by the finest smith in the west. It was not a birthday present, mind you, but a sort of trophy for something I had done. I will not go into what, but my mother thought it was deserving of a gift. My mother, Charlotte and I went in secret to receive it. On the way home, we were attacked by a pack of feral lions. Aside from the fact that they were not native to anywhere in the west, these animals were unnatural, twice the size or more than normal lions and infinitely more savage. With just my newly forged sword, I slew them all. Mother said that I had fought so fiercely that I put the animals to shame, and that I should be the rightful owner of their name. She re-christened me Leon, and Charlotte named my new sword Lionkiller.”
“That explains why Charlotte spoke so highly of you. Tell me, though: why did the sword go into hiding?”
“Cain was none too happy about the three of us leaving Valachia in secret, and even less so when he learned it was for such an extravagant present that, in his eyes, was completely unearned. When he learned that mother had given me a new name on top of it all, he took it as a personal insult. He seized Lionkiller and ordered it to be destroyed.”
“Except Charlotte stole it back and hid it.”
“Yes,” Alastor whispers, haunted. “Yes she did.”
Cardea can see in his blank eyes that he is reliving that day, and then thinking about the fatal day three months previous.
“You should not blame yourself for their deaths.”
“How can I not? If I had the courage to stand against Cain, they would still be here.”
“You cannot change the past, but you can understand it. They died fighting Cain and his evil.”
“How can you know how they died?”
“I told you... I dream. I saw them fight. They held back Cain so that the others could flee and... I saw them die. In my dream, she did not speak, but I could feel that it was Elizabetha’s will, not Cain’s, to have you in Essain during that terrible moment.”
“Why would she do that?”
“That, I do not know I am afraid.”
Alastor’s eyes lower as he contemplates on this. Cardea takes Alastor’s hands into hers, sitting beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for her King and Queen to wake.
Alastor does not object to her being so close.
~-~~-~
By the time they have all eaten and made ready to leave, it is nearly afternoon. They ride at a similar pace as previously, and again there is no air of urgency, however unlike the day before, the world is not as dreary. Taranis and Isolde chat merrily in disregard of the reality they live in, recounting their respective childhoods to Alastor and Cardea, culminating in how they met and eventually married against their parents’ wills. Alastor and Cardea both realize in their own time that Taranis and Isolde were awake and listening while they spoke earlier that morning.
With the approaching dusk, Taranis again brings them all to a place to rest, this time by a small brook. Again, Alastor helps to build a fire, but this time staying with the others. The King and Queen continue speaking of their lives together, with Cardea periodically interrupting to ask a question or confirm some hunch. Alastor remains silent, but listens carefully.
Midnight soon comes and none show signs of tiring.
“What is to happen when we arrive back to Essain?” Alastor suddenly asks. “What had the elders to say about my plan?”
“They agreed with you,” Taranis answers. “When we get home, I am going to send riders out, as will Judeheim. Afterwards, we wait.”
“Good,” Alastor says softly, laying down. “You can continue talking. I need to sleep,” he tells them, and in moments, he does.
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes before dawn, Cardea sleeping beside him. Taranis and Isolde are already awake, preparing the animals for departure.
�
�Good, you are up,” Taranis says, seeing Alastor.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no, no... we just need to get going. Essain is not far off, and the sooner we arrive, the sooner we send out the riders.”
After Alastor has woken Cardea, they are on their way, slow as the days before. Cardea and Isolde ride together, talking in lowered tones occasionally sprinkled with a giggle or two.
“I never gave you my condolences,” Taranis tells Alastor. “I am sorry for what happened. If we had any indication of the sort of heart Cain actually had, we would have acted sooner.”
Alastor looks briefly to Taranis. For whatever reason, he is not as sad as he should be, nor as sad as he would like to be.
“What happened was unavoidable.”
Taranis thinks about this, nodding his head.
“Perhaps. It may take a long while before Cain comes for you.”
“He will come the instant he hears that I am alive still.”
The coldness and matter of fact tone Alastor uses to say this catches Taranis.
“I, even to this day, cannot fathom why a man would chose to become what Cain has become.”
“Power can be quite alluring to a man who spent his life without it.”
“How do you mean? Valachia’s power goes back centuries.”
“You do not know about my father’s childhood?”
“Details of his youth are hard to come by, especially outside of Valachia I would imagine.”
“His family was nomadic, exiles from their natural home. Where their home was, none know, and he never spoke of. Through disease and death, Cain was left alone. He came to Valachia by chance, where he was taken in as a child of the court. His hardships ingrained in him a feeling of being owed reparations by the whole world, so he killed his way through the royal family until he became king himself.”
“How can that be? I have been to Valachia on many occasions, and only saw him as beloved by many of the people.”
“He spread his lies through the affluent members of society, telling of the corruption and other vices that had wormed its way among the royals, not the least of which was that the true king and his family were a clan of blood drinkers.”