The Quest Of The Legend

by A. J. Cronin

  Chapter Eleven

  Fallen

  At last, Lisa passes, or is dragged rather, through the city gate. It has barely been a week since she last saw her home but, to her, it has felt like years.

  Though bound and gagged, she is not blind.

  The streets are lined with the Essain soldiers, a mix of breeds; some still fully human, others the strange hybrid of man and creature that captured her. The suspicions of Alastor and Mikha’el having been, distressingly, proven true; the army did in fact betray Gawain and the entire kingdom. Queen Lisa can also see the citizens peering out of their windows, eyes fearful. Some catch her gaze, their faces going white as they see her in this state. Men, who stand boldly in their front windows and doorways, nod ever-so-slightly to her as she passes, letting her know that their allegiance still is and always will be with the Daughter of Gawain. Wives cry silently beside their husbands as they watch their favorite daughter treated as an animal being taken to slaughter.

  The soldiers threaten the people as they pass their homes, but the true of heart remain rooted in place. They will not abandon Lisa.

  Even in the position she is in, these small things, the gestures and the looks, give Lisa hope. She knows that Alastor will come, and they two shall rally the militia to take back the kingdom. She pushes aside the frightened little girl inside, resolving to find the courage and determination of her father’s blood.

  The closer they come to the castle, the heavier the guard around it is, almost as though mustering for war. The armored soldiers curse and mock and spit on Lisa as she crosses their path. Though the actions are obviously intended to hurt, she passively ignores them, showing no emotion at all. Coming into the castle’s entrance hall, a shiver runs down her spine. The castle feels different, foreign. A second peculiar sensation startles her. At first she thought it was her own heartbeat, but that is not the case; the pendant, hidden from prying eyes, began to throb the moment she was brought into the castle, reacting to that same change in the castle air that she felt.

  The armor shod boots of her captors fall balefully in the empty hall, devoid of life this once bustling place has become. Her mind wanders to a different time, years ago. A birthday festival for her father, in which the entire kingdom celebrated, coming and going through the castle just as if it was a familial home for all. That was the very same year that she gave her father a shield as a present. The very same shield that saved his life and was destroyed for it in Judeheim.

  An epiphany hits her.

  The people of Judeheim surely would have learned of Essain’s plight by now. Her hope now grows by leaps and bounds as the idea of defeating the Necromancer and his army of traitors becomes all the more feasible, nay, likely.

  They come at last to the entrance to the throne room. Hector, with the carriage of a man victorious, throws the doors wide open.

  “Set her before Our Lord,” he orders the soldiers.

  They comply, throwing her hard on the stone floor. There, on the throne seat, upon her father’s throne, upon her throne, sits the Necromancer, flipping wistfully through a large book with a red cover.

  The Necromancer raises his eyes up to what lays before him. He does not smile, but remains morose and solemn. Almost annoyed with something. Or is that disappointment Lisa is reading on his face? His eyes dart to Hector.

  “Leave,” Hector orders the soldiers coldly, who all comply with a pound on their armor and a bow.

  Hector throws Lisa’s sword on the ground between her and the Necromancer. He simply reverts his gaze back to the book he holds.

  “Unbind her,” the Necromancer orders Hector.

  Both the Queen and her cousin look to the Necromancer in surprise.

  “But, Lord...” Hector begins in protest.

  “Would you like to be flayed, my little false king?”

  Hector says no more, quickly removing the ropes that bind Lisa. She stands, removing the gag but saying nothing and remaining motionless. She looks to Hector for a moment then back to the usurper sitting in her place.

  “It must be difficult,” the Necromancer addresses her, “to stand there smoldering with rage, your blade just in front of you, your enemy so very close and very much unarmed.”

  “Unarmed maybe, but far from helpless,” she responds. “You would not allow this unless you had some leverage that would prevent me from acting.”

  “Indeed,” the Necromancer declares as he looks back to her, his face conveying that her deduction has impressed him. “You are not nearly as foolish as I have been led to believe, Your Highness. I will confess that had I allowed you to take your weapon, you would have undoubtedly been able to kill your cousin without challenge. And, in a fair fight, might have been able to kill even me... except...”

  “You would never fight fair.”

  “Precisely.”

  The Necromancer snaps his fingers, and from the shadows behind a column, two figures appear: Edna, worn and weary, and the bard-creature, Amy, holding a sword to Edna’s throat.

  “Edna!” Lisa cries.

  “Had you moved to retrieve your weapon,” the Necromancer continues, “she would have been killed. Not something you would have been able to live with, I wager.”

  Amy pushes Edna down on to her knees, though it appears to disturb her to do so. Edna stares at Lisa with strong and steady eyes, not caring about anything else.

  “You would be right,” Lisa tells him. “Now, you seem to have gone to great lengths to keep me from acting, and you have not killed me, so I in turn would wager that you need me alive.”

  The Necromancer grins, again impressed.

  “Far wiser than even I thought. I see why so much was placed upon you. Yes, Your Highness, I do need you alive. Alastor will be arriving soon enough. His heart is, as always, in the wrong place. When not caught up in his pathetic little bout of depression and self-loathing, he fancies himself a hero of sorts. I shall use this against him. Not the most grandiose of machinations but effective nonetheless, I think you will have to agree.”

  “Holding Edna so that you can use me to get whatever you want from Alastor?”

  “It sounds so uncouth when said like that, but that would be an accurate description of this little scheme, I suppose.”

  “Can you at least let me kill Hector? I came all this way, after all,” Lisa replies sardonically.

  The Necromancer laughs softly. Darkly. Respect for the woman standing before him begins to brew.

  “Have I found in this woman a kindred heart? I thought such a thing would be impossible. Sadly, I must tell you that you may not. As much as I hate to admit this, the fool does have his uses. Take solace, Your Highness, in the fact that, had I not needed him, I would gladly give you the thing you ask for. It would be a beautiful spectacle to watch, I think.”

  Hector’s face grows red with humiliation and anger. Lisa, though finding these words curious, remains cold and collected. The way in which the Necromancer calls her ‘Your Highness’ is uncomfortably familiar. A soldier barges in.

  “What is it?” Hector barks.

  “He has come, My Lords. He nears the city gate now.”

  A joyous sneer crosses the Necromancer’s face.

  “Well then, by all means show him in,” the cloaked one says. “Pull the army to the rear of the castle, except for that one special little company I formed. They know already their duty.”

  The soldier salutes his master and leaves. The Necromancer closes the book, setting it between the inside of the throne seat and his left leg. Lisa and Edna both make a mental note of this.

  “Now, Your Highness,” the Necromancer continues his conversation with the Queen, “do try and play along. I would so much hate taking yet another loved one from you.”

  The Necromancer’s smile becomes sarcastic, like a adult who humors a child with fanciful tales and swears to their truth. Lisa retains her cold removal. She sees herself becoming, in her mind, more like Alastor. To cut out one’s own heart from the realities of
a darkened life was the only way to combat the Necromancer’s vile ways.

  ~-~~-~

  Running along the main road, Alastor soon catches sight of Essain’s entrance, the same gate he more than a year ago met Gawain at, and at journey’s end, had refused to pass through.

  Spying guards at the gate, he slows down to a walk. The guards stand before the open entrance with an manner of ease, no apparent reason to be otherwise, this day being not but another mediocrity amidst a sea of boredom for those whose duty it is to protect the city.

  Alastor breathes heavy, recovering from his sprint, taking each step now knowing that each one brings him closer to a fated confrontation with an outcome stretching far beyond what his eyes can yet see. Coming before the gate, he comes into view of the guards, who step out to meet him, hands outstretched in that universal gesture of restricting travelers.

  “Halt!” their captain commands.

  Alastor stops before the captain, carefully examining the situation with as little movement of his eyes and head as possible. They number ten total, counting the captain.

  Alastor cannot help but smirk.

  “What is so funny?” the captain demands of Alastor.

  “You stand here, pretending to be guards. I find it amusing.”

  “You see beyond the mask, Knight,” the captain says with a laugh. “Master expected no less. We shall most enjoy killing you, then every other foul, pitiful creature in this excuse for a kingdom.”

  “Petty little sacrifices are all you are. No more. Enjoy oblivion.”

  Alastor takes his blade, cutting the captain down without mercy. The other soldiers, seeing their captain so easily dispatched, scatter and flee into the city. Alastor takes a step toward entering the city, but the gates violently shut in his face. The sound of the crossbeams being slid into place is heard, barring the gates from the inside. Alastor grunts in displeasure, pushing on the gate, judging the location of the crossbeams. He smiles, then swiftly strikes the door down the center, kicking the gates open and looking upon Essain’s vacant streets.

  The Knight walks cautiously, keen eyes darting in all directions, looking for where the inevitable ambush might be. The windows of the houses and businesses are closed against Alastor, making it seem that the city itself is cowering from him.

  Alastor is reminded of the last time he had seen a city shut up around him, and the night that followed. Fate’s sense of humor is not appreciated, he thinks to himself.

  The fog from earlier rolls back in, followed by that heavy rain. Is the Ice Fairy around, trying to help? Perhaps signal him? Or is it just bad weather? Either way, Alastor strengthens his grip on his sword. The pounding rain drowns out all other sound, including his boots upon the wet stone-paved street.

  The soldiers leap out of their secret places, coming out from between buildings and alleyways. One leaps down from a rooftop, but Alastor thrusts up his sword, impaling the foe. With enemy still on blade, the Knight revolves around to strike an attacker, cutting him across the chest, ripping apart his armor, then sending the impaled soldier into his attacking comrades.

  Three attempt to charge the Knight, but they do not attack in unison. The Knight easily deflects using his bracers and sword, knocking the three off balance. In a single swing, Alastor kills them.

  The soldiers that had been knocked to the ground by the impaled soldier rise up, but they number only two. They rush the Knight, but they hasten to their doom. Alastor cuts them down, one than the other, neither even remotely standing a chance.

  The street is empty, the final soldiers nowhere to be seen. Alastor continues on to the castle. At its entrance, the Knight spots a single soldier standing guard, but this one is no mere foot soldier - he is a Berserker, a man-giant of massive stature, wielding a blade that dwarfs Alastor’s own.

  “You are the Black Knight?” asks the Berserker gruffly, surprised.

  Alastor does not speak. He just stands before the Berserker, sword in hand, but lowered. The Berserker becomes agitated.

  “No armor and no tongue. You are not he. Taste my steel and die, imposter.”

  The Berserker flourishes his imposing weapon, swinging it down on Alastor. Alastor raises his left arm, catching the Berserker blade on his forearm, a metallic clang singing out. The eyes of the Berserker open wide.

  “You are him. It was an honor. Remember me, sir.”

  Alastor pushes the weapon of his foe away, then brings his own blade to the Berserker’s neck. The Knight steps over the body of the Berserker and pushes open the doors to Essain’s castle.

  The castle is dark and cold, lit only once in a while by lamps burning that familiar noxious substance that was first discovered in Judeheim. All of the paintings and tapestries have been either desecrated or destroyed. The stones have been stained red with blood, unknown of origin. The corridors that branch off into the other wings from the entrance hall into the rest of the castle are pitch black.

  No sound of life.

  The doors to the throne room are sealed tightly. Without missing a step, Alastor slashes down the center of the doors, cutting through the crossbeam, then kicks them into the throne room. The only light in the throne room is that which streams in from the windows behind the throne itself.

  “Where I go, even gods fear to tread.”

  With those words, he walks in.

  “Who dares burst into my throne with such impudence?” a voice cries out.

  Alastor’s eyes finally adjust to the dim light, allowing him to see the figure which sits on the throne seat, but it is pointless. Two lamps on each side of the room ignite, exploding to life.

  Hector is on the throne.

  Lisa, bound about the wrists, is on her knees before the throne, facing Alastor. To her left, Amy still holds Edna hostage. Hector steps down from the ruling seat, perplexed, unsure what to make of Alastor.

  “What is this?” Hector questions. “Some pathetic hero hired by my cousin to best me?”

  Alastor says nothing. Lisa opens her mouth to speak, but another voice does it for her.

  “That, my little false king, is the son of the Black Knight of legend,” the Necromancer says as he steps out from the shadows behind the throne.

  Hector looks to his master with a raised brow.

  “The son of the one you killed? I expected more given his reputation. From what I understand, the Son of Eoin has spilled enough blood to make even the Butcher of Theria blush with envy,” Hector reflects with an evil chuckle, directed solely at Alastor. “This one looks as though he would be more at home in the south raising pigs.”

  Alastor’s face is unchanged by these childish attempts at insulting him. Lisa’s eyes do not stray from the Knight. The Necromancer cannot help but notice Alastor’s lack of emotion.

  “Only a fool would not fear this one,” the Necromancer tells Hector. “Which is probably why you are so quick to wag your tongue. Alastor here is far more than he seems. He is everything that the Butcher of Theria dreamed of never being, and twice as much as the Butcher’s son ever hoped to be.” The Necromancer, now standing to the right of the throne, laughs to himself, finding contained in his statement some personal joke. Even from under his raised hood, his wide smile could not be more visible. “Alastor, it is quite rude to go breaking through doors when you could have just as easily knocked. Subtlety, I suppose, was never your strong point, was it?” A dark grin, venomous and toxic, spreads further on his face. “Why, you would kill the love of your life if she crossed you, is that not so?”

  Alastor’s knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on his weapon, his eyes somehow manage to grow even darker. He bares his teeth momentarily like a wolf, but still he does not speak. The Necromancer and Alastor stare into one another’s eyes, neither wavering. The Necromancer suddenly closes his eyes, sneering in disgust.

  “Alastor, Alastor, Alastor... I am exceedingly disappointed in you. You are, for lack of a better phrase, the Black Knight and yet you come here to me clad not in that glorious
armor that men would sell their souls to attain, but as yet another pathetic mortal. I am hurt most deeply. My heart, it is bleeding. Why, I would weep utterly if I was not so surrounded by such fine people and my fear of embarrassment was not so strong. I would weep indeed until every last tear was shed. But... you know all about that, do you not?”

  Everyone in the room looks on these two in quiet fascination, married with a sensation of absolute fear of expecting battle to break about between them at any moment. Alastor looks Amy in the eyes, then Edna, and finally Lisa.

  “Are you injured, Lisa?” Alastor asks of the Queen, ignoring the others completely.

  She shakes her head.

  “Take her back if that is what you want,” says the Necromancer with an tinge of impatience.

  Alastor does so, cutting her bindings as she stands to meet him.

  “Get behind me,” he whispers.

  “So, noble Knight,” the Necromancer says slowly, no longer in the mood for his mock drama. “Why is it that you have come so ill prepared?”

  Grimly, Alastor answers.

  “You know as well as I do.”

  The Necromancer’s demeanor changes completely. Gone is the playful sarcasm. He becomes deathly serious.

  “That I do... my dear brother.”

  The words at first are not heard, but then the shock washes over the True Queen and the False King. Edna hangs her head with a crestfallen sigh. Amy is unchanged. The Necromancer, seeing Lisa’s and his servant’s expressions, reverts to his hideously soulless smile.

  “A detail he left out of his discussions with you I take it, Your Highness?”

  Lisa looks to Alastor, expecting some rebuttal, to deny this accusation. Alastor returns her gaze, but his mouth does not open. His eyes tell her everything.

  For once in his life, the Necromancer speaks the unmolested truth.

  Alastor unexpectedly erupts with violence, leaping at his brother, attempting to strike him down. The Necromancer unsheathes a sword hidden in his cloak, blocking the attack. Hector retreats from the throne, not wanting to get caught in their fight. Edna watches, spying that the red book has fallen to the floor.