by A. J. Cronin
“Is there anything we can do to help him?”
“No, I am afraid.”
Lisa sinks back into her chair, glad that Alastor is well, but disappointed that there is nothing more she can do for him at this point. That disappointment becomes a small defeat as she remembers the bigger picture.
“We cannot defeat Lucius and Hector without him, and each hour we give them they solidify their hold. What am I supposed to do?”
“Have faith that Alastor will awaken soon. Beyond that, there is nothing.”
“Nothing...” Lisa repeats to herself.
The Queen pushes herself out of her seat and leaves without another word.
~-~~-~
Gently Lisa pushes the door to Alastor’s room open. The Knight has not moved since last she saw him. She sits beside him, caressing his forehead. The warmth has reentered to his skin.
“Who are we, Alastor?”
The lamp light flickers but stays strong. In the corner of the room is an old chair, covered in dust, not having been used in years from the looks of it. Lisa walks over to the chair, cleaning it off then moving it beside Alastor’s bed. She falls into the chair, intent on watching over the Knight for as long as she can.
~-~~-~
The Queen is roused from her sleep. Amy stands over her, shaking her shoulder slightly.
“Amy? How long have I been asleep?” Lisa asks groggily.
“All night.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Lisa looks into Amy’s face, seeing that her friend has something to say, but is not saying it.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Morrigan wants to speak with us, up stairs.”
“About?”
“She did not say, but I could tell that it was important.”
Lisa reluctantly leaves Alastor, following Amy to the Cloud Hall. As they go up the stairs, Lisa can unquestionably see that this was not what is bothering Amy.
“Amy, what is really upsetting you?”
“I had... a... dream,” Amy says hesitantly.
“A dream? What sort of dream?”
“I saw three woman dancing in a forest around a fire. They were speaking the language that Lucius spoke in private. The same language Alastor spoke when he confronted me and Cale.”
“Do you know who they were?”
Amy looks deep into Lisa’s eyes, on the verge of some emotional breakdown.
“One was my mother. One was a pale woman with black hair. I could not see the third. They all had black flowers in their hair.”
Amy can say no more and continues up the stairs to the Cloud Hall. Lisa can do little more than put her hand on Amy’s shoulder in a pathetic attempt to comfort her. Upstairs, on the table is set a platter for Amy and Lisa.
“Please, both of you, sit and eat,” Morrigan says as the two enter.
Lisa does so, although uneasily. Amy refuses the food politely.
“What did you want to speak with us about?” asks Lisa.
“The time has come to finally tell you both the story into which our lives have all been woven: I am going to tell you the story of Cain, and his son, Alastor the Lesser.”
“Alastor the Lesser?” Amy and Lisa both stammer.
“The man for whom our Knight is named,” Mikha’el tells them.
Lisa pushes aside the plate of food.
“By all means, do speak, Morrigan.”
“The story takes place during the golden age of the Old Kingdom. In fact it starts in the Old Kingdom: the Kingdom of Valachia, where we now sit. The story truly begins many, many years into Cain’s rule of Valachia, just before the All Kingdoms War.”
Chapter Eighteen
Antecedent
Alastor, son of Cain, hurries through Valachia castle, coming with all haste into the throne room. Atop the dais stand two chairs, one large and centered, and one smaller, set to the right of the larger. Upon the King’s Throne sits a large man, hair like midnight fire, deep in thought, unaware of Alastor. Cain in the flesh.
“You called for me, father?” Alastor asks.
“Ah, yes,” Cain says, raising his eyes to his son. “Alastor. Thank you for coming when I asked.”
“That is not my name, father.”
“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.
