The Quest Of The Legend

by A. J. Cronin

“I fail to see how Eoin leading us into Magda is a benefit.”

  “Because, Gawain,” Eoin says solemnly, “the power of this armor, my power, increases greatly in places such as Magda.”

  Gawain stares at the Black Knight. The mythology and legends flooding the King’s mind.

  “Why is that?” he asks cautiously.

  “Magda is ‘God forsaken,’ as you said, and I am not an entirely holy creature.”

  Gawain searches for reaction from the Councilmen, but they do not display any change.

  “So be it. Judeheim and Essain will march together, led by Eoin. When do we leave?”

  “As soon as your army is properly prepared.”

  “What about a battle plan?”

  “That will be discussed once we are at the valley’s edge.”

  Gawain again rubs his forehead, the stress of the situation becoming monotonous.

  “Then let us see how they fare, shall we? The sooner this is over, the better.”

  ~-~~-~

  Gallahad silently walks up and down the rows of men, looking at them as a father does his sons. The army sees Gawain before Gallahad does.

  “Hail, Gawain!” they shout.

  Gallahad, now wearing his own armor, strides to his brother.

  “How are they?” the King asks.

  “Afraid, brother.”

  “Understandable. Very few of them have faced full scale war.”

  “It is not the prospect of battle which they fear, Gawain.”

  “Then what is?”

  Gallahad’s eyes dart to the again fully armored Eoin.

  “Him. The Black Knight. The families of many of these men were Therian born, as you know, and they are only here because of what he did.”

  “He is not the same man, Gallahad.”

  “He wears the armor, and that is what the men see. That could be God himself in there, and that would not change the distrust and fear.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have absolutely no cause for trust, either.”

  Gawain decides at this moment to avoid telling his brother that Eoin will be leading their own army, as well as Judeheim’s.

  “If that is the truth, then I am sorry to say that I have no words to change yours or their minds at this time. This course is unavoidable, and Eoin is an irrefutable part of it.”

  Gallahad looks beyond the words, beyond Gawain’s eyes.

  “Persephone does not know about Eoin, does she? About who he really is, I mean.”

  “No, and she never will. Am I clear?”

  “If you say so.”

  Eoin and the Council come up behind Gawain and Gallahad.

  “If your men are prepared, we should leave now,” the Knight whispers.

  Gawain nods, relating their current plan to the army.

  “We march south, not stopping until we are on the very edge of the Grey Woods, overlooking Magda valley.”

  The army, while inexperienced, does not react. The men make no sound, their faces show no expression. They might be nothing more than an army of statues. Mikha’el finds Eoin and the two take their leave of Essain, followed by the Councilmen.

  Rachel comes from the stables with two horses in tow; one brown, the other white. Gallahad takes the brown horse from Rachel politely; afterwards she brings the other to Gawain. The brothers mount, slowly leading their force out of the city without any fanfare. To make the scene even more depressing, the clouds have grown dark, bloated with rain anxious to fall while lightning and thunder dance on the outskirts of the world, ready to strike when least desired. Birds sit on the branches and boughs, remaining song less almost as if they are vindictive at what will happen in the coming future. If there be a light or a melody of good in the world, of the sort to raise a man’s soul from the mire of destiny, they are resolute to not be it.

  Gawain can see Eoin outside the city gates, mounting a terrible looking black stallion which is covered in war armor, similar in design to the Knight’s. Finally reaching the gate himself, Gawain now sees the Judeheim army in all its scope. Some three thousand men encamped around his city walls, most resting or praying.

  Though the Judeheim citizen army all wear the same uniform armor, it is not hard for Gawain to spot those who came of their own will, the religious mercenaries, the pilgrims who heeded a call. They come in their own armor, more often resembling Eoin’s than any others, and they carry their own, sometimes savage looking, weapons. As out of place as they look, they walk and speak amongst the Judeheim army like brothers.

  Each of the Councilmen shout a different word, which causes each group to spring to their feet. Of interest to Gawain is their manner of uniform. Unlike the Essain army, who wears a sort of plate metal suit, the Judeheim wear a lighter armor which only covers those areas where wounding might prove lethal, and under that they wear light robes. When the Judeheim forces have made ready, Eoin leads all south, towards the two kingdom’s shared fate.

  ~-~~-~

  The march is swift, yet the dreariness of the world makes it feel antithetic. They come finally into the Grey Woods, the southernmost portion of Essain. There are no roads through this patch of land, and so the armies have little choice but to disperse amongst the trees.

  The Grey Woods are so named because all the trees are of a pale, almost sickly color. One would think the trees dead, but one would be very wrong. They continue to grow, larger and stronger, but the leaves and needles of the tree are forever brown regardless of the season. These ghostly trees, it was taught, are the result of Magda’s mere proximity and proof of the valley’s evil. A mist clings to the ground and the branches, creating a fretful atmosphere, like the trees might at any moment spring to life and crush those within on the slightest whim. This mist, coupled with the overcast sky makes telling time impossible.

  The world is a bleak, pale nothing.

  Afternoon passes unnoticed, until it starts to slowly grow darker with the sinking sun. Eoin lights a torch, but none can see how he could have done so from horseback. All the more intriguing is the fact that the fire burns brighter than a torch should, gently bathing the Grey Woods with a golden light. He holds it aloft, becoming a beacon for everyone. As the journey drags along, the men begin to dull, reverting back to their civilian selves; talking to each other, telling stories and, above all else, complaining. The two thousand of Essain and the three thousand of Judeheim generate a bedlam of sound in the deathly silent wood. Even Gawain, Gallahad and the Council partake in the mutiny of their own secrecy.

  Eoin grows frustrated and stops, gazing back to the five thousand that follow him. The fire light makes his black armor shimmer with a life of its own. He says nothing, just staring menacingly at the men in his command. The terrible sight of the Black Knight’s glaring makes many of the men who can see it cringe and recoil. Not to mention fearful of letting even the smallest of sounds pass their lips.

  “Ahead is a large clearing,” Eoin finally speaks. “It is there that we will make camp, hidden from our foe. Once camp is made, Gawain, Gallahad, the Council and I will speak together to discuss the plan of battle.”

  Eoin resumes the forward march, leading the men through a final thicket of overgrown trees and into a massive oval pavilion of barren land, surrounded all around by the Grey Woods. The two armies break into their smaller units, setting up tents and fires for cooking. Members of the Essain Elite Guard set up Gawain and Gallahad’s tents, and then a central tent for the leaders to meet in. Eoin is the first into the meeting tent, followed soon after by everyone else.

  “So, what exactly is our plan?” Gallahad asks with a touch of distaste about having to speak to Eoin.

  Eoin crouches, pulling back the rug, exposing the bare ground. He draws a large gash in the dirt with three fingers.

  “This is the valley itself,” he says. He then draws three X’s on the farthest side of the line in a tight group. “Mors is a man of brute force. He will send his men as he would send a punch, tight and fast, expecting to batte
r his way through any defenses.” He then draws a smaller series of circles on the opposite side of the valley, two rows thick. “When we exit the woods, I want our army lined up against the valley mouth like so, in two separate lines.”

  “Is that not spreading our line a little thin?” Gawain asks.

  “No, it is perfect,” Gallahad says reluctantly.

  “How so?”

  “Mors will be expecting to bludgeon through our lines and break our wills with a sudden, violent attack. If my memory of Magda is not too clouded, and based on how Eoin wants us to line up, I believe more than roughly half the army will be hidden from view. We will be able to wrap around them unnoticed, forming a nice, little noose. The center will catch Mors’ proverbial ‘punch’ and the rest come in to attack their rear. As I said, perfect in its simplicity.”

  Everyone looks to Eoin.

  “I will lead the center of the lines to catch Mors’ attention. Gawain will lead the right line, Gallahad the left. Councilmen, you can divide yourselves accordingly. When I and the center meet with Mors’ army, the left and the right will close in. Is this understood?”

  They all agree, seeing this plan as the best means of minimizing Essain and Judeheim casualties.

  “Very well,” Gawain says, “is there anything else to discuss then?”

  “There is one last issue,” Eoin responds.

  “What is that?” asks Gallahad.

  “Mors. None of you, nor any of your soldiers, are to engage him under any circumstances. He is mine alone to deal with.”

  “How will we recognize him?”

  “The same way you recognize me, I assure you. There will be absolutely no mistaking when you see him.”

  “Why do you want Mors to yourself?” Gawain asks curiously.

  Eoin begins to speak, but stops himself. He looks at his gauntleted hands, then angrily clenches his fists.

  “I have my reasons,” Eoin hisses before standing and leaving the tent fervently.

  Something tugs at Gawain’s mind, maybe his heart. Either way, he is compelled to follow Eoin.

  He finds the Knight on the outskirts of the woods, looking out over the valley. The sun had long ago set fully, and with it the mist and the fog, leaving the moon illuminating bright what will soon become a battlefield.

  “Who is Mors?” asks Gawain.

  Eoin does not move, keeping stoic watch of the valley.

  “It is not all that surprising that you do not know, or at least remember, who Mors is. It was, after all, your wife and her people that were most affected by him.”

  “What do you know of my wife?”

  “Theria, her home and her kingdom, was wholly destroyed by my father. How could I not know?”

  “And what has that to do with Mors?”

  “Mors was many things to my father. He was his right hand, his advisor and, ultimately, general of my father’s mercenary army.”

  “Mors led the army? But I thought it was the Black Knight...”

  “Father was far too busy slaughtering people at random to control an army, even his own. That he left to Mors, who was honestly more apt for that role anyway.”

  Gawain struggles to think straight. Emotions build up and then come into direct conflict with one another.

  “That is why you want to kill Mors? Because of Theria?”

  “I wish I could say that was why. It has a nice degree of altruism to it. No, I want to kill him for what he made me do.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Eoin finally turns to face Gawain, removing his helmet and holding it at his side. Eoin’s eyes light as he recalls events past.

  “Growing up, I loved my father. There were times when he showed signs of being a good man, potential to use his power for great deeds. As I became older, and coming to comprehend the actuality of my father’s character, I tried to change him, but as I spoke in his right ear, Mors would corrupt his left. It was Mors that convinced my father to do many of his most horrible things, including the ravaging of Theria. More recently, Mors convinced my father that I was a threat to his power.”

  “No, Eoin... you cannot be telling me that your own father...”

  “Indeed he did. My father tried to murder me. Even with his armor though, he was somehow no match for me. I was forced to kill my own father, and this armor became mine. Mors fled from my wrath, taking with him what remained of my father’s army.”

  “Remained?”

  “After being forced to kill my father, I decided to ‘liquidate’ the army while searching for Mors. Mors gathered the survivors and ran off like a coward.”

  Gawain drinks this new knowledge in slowly, but the bitter taste becomes unacceptable.

  “How can a father so easily be swayed against his own son?”

  “Do not think on it too much, Gawain. Fathers battling their sons is a common occurrence in my family,” Eoin answers with a sad, humorless chuckle.

  “This sort of thing has happened before?”

  Eoin laughs more readily, genuinely surprised by Gawain.

  “Since you seem to be interested in my past, I will tell you of it, but not now. Go back with the others. They will no doubt want to confer with you regarding tomorrow.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Mikha’el and I will scout around, make sure we remain hidden throughout the night.”

  As if summoned, Mikha’el walks soundlessly up to Eoin, almost startling Gawain.

  “Eoin and I will ensure the safety of the whole camp, I promise you, Your Highness,” the winged one assures.

  “I could never doubt the word of Rachel’s brother. Good night, friends.”

  Gawain goes back to the meeting tent in a daze. It is not every day that a cornerstone of your beliefs is forever shattered, replaced with something so wholly opposite you can do not but wonder what else in life is not what it appears. If anything is what it claims at all, for that matter.

  Back in the tent, Gawain finds everyone waiting for him.

  “I suppose you knew all of Eoin’s story long before you came here?” he asks a Councilman.

  “We did. We wanted to tell you, but in truth it was never our place. Given the circumstances of his history, it was best if Eoin himself told you.”

  Gawain notices Gallahad’s changed expression, and Rachel sitting on the floor with her head lowered, trying to wipe tears away.

  “But the Council just told you, I assume?”

  “Yes,” Gallahad answers mournfully. “Yes they did.”

  Gawain can see that the story of Eoin and his father has been a trying experience for his brother and his favorite guard.

  “That being the case, there is nothing more we need to discuss,” Gawain says more to the Council than the others. “Tomorrow, we prepare according to Eoin’s plan and fight. When this is over, Essain and Judeheim can sit around the feast table and speak fully on these matters.”

  Each Councilman agrees, standing and leaving to their own camps, bowing respectfully to Gawain and Gallahad as they pass out of the tent. Gawain sighs deeply as he falls down to the floor, fatigued beyond comprehension. Gallahad gently clasps Rachel’s shoulder, as she tries to suppress further sobs. Gawain cannot remember Rachel ever looking this way. He looks at his friends with a more discerning eye.

  “Why do I get the distinct feeling that the Council told you a slightly differing story?” Gawain asks.

  “They said Eoin would be modest on the subject,” Gallahad says.

  “Oh?”

  “You were not there that night, but Theria was an unequivocal ruin in the wake of the Black Knight and his army. Truth be told, no one should have escaped alive, yet Essain holds more than a fair number of refugees. The Therians always considered it a miracle. It was, I suppose, just not in the way you might expect.”

  “You mean... Eoin was there?”

  “More than simply there. He was the one that repelled the mercenary army. He masqueraded as one of their number and when the time was
right, he entered the city and attacked his father’s soldiers. Every Therian alive owes their very existence to Eoin. Apparently the Black Knight was oblivious to the machinations of his son, but Mors was not. He was not happy with Eoin taking his victory away, and so he convinced the father to eliminate the son.”

  Gawain is speechless. The three sit in silence, the sounds of the camp outside becoming a sort of music to them, voices melding into a single, varying tone.

  “My Lords,” Rachel finally speaks, “should we tell the soldiers who Mors is? It might make them more willing, giving them the warrior’s edge they will need.”

  “No, not tonight,” Gallahad answers for Gawain. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “My Lord? Do they not deserve to know?”

  “They do. However, if we tell them now, they will spend the rest of the night seething. They will not sleep, and when we fight, they will be slow witted.”

  “But, if we tell them in the morning, their rage will be focused, strong.”

  “Correct.”

  At this, Rachel smiles.

  “After all these years, it looks as though the people of Theria will finally have their vengeance.”

  “Yes, Rachel,” Gawain answers. “Yes they will.”

  Gawain stands, stretching his arms.

  “Where are you going, brother?” asks Gallahad.

  “To my tent. I will not be of much use if I am slow witted, will I?”

  “No, you would not,” the King’s brother replies with a grin.

  “You two should get some sleep as well. Sleep brings focus, focus brings victory.”

  “Father had a good phrase for every situation.”

  “That he did.”

  Gawain leaves them with a smile. The noise of the soldiers slowly dies out as the men take to their own tents and bedrolls. Gawain enters his tent and collapses on the cushions made up to function as a bed, not thinking to remove his armor, having forgotten that he is wearing any. Weighed down as he is by all that he has learned and of what will soon come, sleep comes swiftly for the King.

  ~-~~-~

  Morning arrives sooner than desired. Gawain is awakened by Rachel, she kneeling beside the King with a plate of food.

  “Your Highness, you should eat.”