The Quest Of The Legend

by A. J. Cronin

  “And the people at the time believed this?”

  “Cain’s promises of a new age of wealth made it easy for them to swallow his thin explanation for slaughtering the royal family.”

  “And no one questioned anything?”

  “Remember that religious faith had already decayed amongst the people, and with it common sense. Wealth, leisure, self-gratification... these things were all that mattered to most of the population. However, you know that not everyone believed this, but early on they learned to keep quiet, lest their family suddenly find itself at the bottom of a grave.”

  Taranis laughs darkly to himself, the state of Valachian affairs being so strange and disturbing.

  “Let us assume we can stop Cain, Alastor; what will you do with Valachia? You would be the king for all intents and purposes, after all.”

  “What will I do? Disperse the people and then tear down that damned city into rubble, that is what I will do.”

  “You would abandon them?”

  “By now, all the good people have fled. Those who remain are as guilty as Cain. What I intend to do is a mercy far above what they deserve.”

  “What of your kingship? You would give that up?”

  “I have no desire to be a king and even if I did it would not matter. Cain was not a rightful king, nor am I a rightful prince. Valachia will no longer exist, its kings dead, forgotten by history. It is the fate it has earned for its sins.”

  Lost in talk, they have finally come to Essain without noticing. They ride into the city, seeing the races of winged and men working together on construction of the walls and battlements, which with this new influx of aid is now nearly finished. Uri’el waits outside the castle, four swift riders ready to go. Taranis gives them but a gesture and the four horsemen ride out of the city as if they were in a race. Alastor, Taranis, Isolde and Cardea all dismount.

  “I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long,” says Uri’el.

  “Alastor needed some time,” Isolde whispers to him as she passes.

  As they walk into the castle, Alastor again avoids contact of any kind with Uri’el.

  “Is there a room I can have while I am here?” Alastor asks of Taranis and Isolde. “Preferably apart from the rest of your court. I need to be alone.”

  “Of course,” Isolde tells him. “Cardea can take you to a proper room.”

  Cardea tugs at Alastor’s sleeve, taking him up to the highest floors of the castle.

  “Why do you want to be alone?” she asks him as they walk through empty halls.

  “I need to think. To prepare.”

  She leads Alastor to a corridor at the rear most of the castle, and then finally to what shall be his room while in Essain. The room is not a simple bedroom, but an entire home within the castle.

  “What do you think?”

  “Extravagant. Of what use is this part of the castle usually reserved?”

  “Royal visitors, for the most part. None of the court are allowed here.”

  “Good.”

  Alastor walks around, finding a couch set before a window which looks out onto a lake behind the castle, and the mountains beyond. The lake has a hypnotic quality. Alastor sits, staring out.

  “Is there anything you need, Alastor? Anything at all?”

  “No. My isolation is all I need.”

  Cardea suppresses a sob, leaving without making even a murmur, closing the door behind her. Alastor reclines on the couch, the lake outside becoming his reflecting mirror. Soon, he thinks, his father will come, Cain’s only intention being to kill his son, and then anything and anyone which may cross his path. Alastor’s eyes never leave the living portrait of the lake and the mountains, the evergreens and the birds which call them home.

  Even with the coming of night, he does not budge.

  Cardea checks in on him, but he does not acknowledge, or even become aware of her. She kindly leaves food for him, then leaves.

  ~-~~-~

  This is the manner of things for a week. Alastor, silent and sad. Cardea waiting on him, hoping each time that she enters for him to speak to her, if only a single word. At the end of the week, Cardea enters Alastor’s quarters much earlier than normal.

  ~-~~-~

  “Alastor,” Cardea says barely louder than a mouse, “Taranis needs to see you. I think it is about...”

  “Father.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” he tells her, his voice distant and rough. “Let Taranis know I will be down momentarily, please.”

  “I will, Alastor.”

  Before leaving, Cardea sets down a new set of clothes, dyed black, along with new boots and gloves. As soon as she leaves, Alastor stands, removes his old garments, washes in a basin from which the water constantly flows, and finally dresses in the new clothes brought to him. A grim smiles crosses his lips as he looks at himself in the mirror.

  Heart, body and soul, he thinks, now all matching.

  ~-~~-~

  In Taranis’ throne room, Alastor finds everyone he had expected to see, along with many winged ones, including Shira, no longer with child, standing beside her husband.

  “How long until he is here?” Alastor bluntly asks Taranis.

  “Three days.”

  Alastor laughs obscenely, a sneer on his face.

  “Alastor? What is it?” Uri’el asks.

  “It must consume him so, to think that I am still alive, and that whatever he had done to him has affected me. Now, he can taste my torment.”

  “Alastor,” Taranis speaks, “we need to make a plan.”

  “What is there to plan? Either I kill Cain, or Cain kills me. If the latter should happen, then you should pray to your god that you can overwhelm him with sheer numbers.”

  “And if we cannot?”

  “Prepare for eternity.”

  Like in response to Alastor’s darkness, the sun’s light is suddenly dimmed, followed by the sound of thunder in the distance. Rain begins to pound the castle, taking all within off guard by the abrupt appearance of such a storm. Alastor laughs to himself softly, leaving the throne room as he does so.

  “Where are you going, Alastor?” Isolde calls after him.

  “Why, to stand in the rain, of course, Your Highness.”

  Uri’el and Shira chase after him, finally catching him outside. Uri’el grabs Alastor by the shoulder, twirling him around.

  “What is wrong with you!?” Uri’el demands.

  Alastor opens his mouth to argue, but instead swoons, nearly fainting. Uri’el and Shira hold him tight.

  “I wish I knew,” sighs Alastor as they bring him back up to his feet. “Cain’s blasphemous act has done more to me than change the physical. Something inside has been horribly influenced.”

  “We can all see that, Alastor.”

  “Can you? I guess you would...”

  “We are here if you need us, brother. Shira, myself, Taranis, Isolde, Cardea. All of Essain and Judeheim. If you feel yourself slip, we are all here for you.”

  Alastor steps away from Uri’el and Shira, walking toward the militia sparring ground.

  “Thank you very much, but I do not think that any of you can really help me. Not anymore.”

  ~-~~-~

  The sparring arena is empty, but the training dummies are still set up. Alastor steps on a wooden sword and, picking it up, he haphazardly strikes at the nearest dummy. At first, his fight with the straw man is playful, a swing here, a parry there. But Alastor’s mind slips back to Valachia, when he stood at the stairs, looking up at Cain in his armor. His attacks on the dummy become more ferocious, and soon he dismembers the stuffed man until he breaks the wooden sword. He swipes up another, taking it to another dummy, then another and another. Minutes later, Alastor stands amidst the remains of all the straw men in the yard.

  “Not a vision of the future, I hope,” a voice calls out.

  Cardea steps carefully over the sackcloth and hay remains as though they were real men, slain in a war.


  “Only if my father has made duplicates of himself,” Alastor replies sarcastically.

  “What do you see in your future, Alastor? What do you see after defeating him?”

  Alastor has to think for a moment.

  “Truthfully?”

  “I would ask for nothing else.”

  “Nothing. I see absolutely nothing.”

  “Do you truly have no hope?”

  “I am empty, Cardea.”

  “Is this what Elizabetha and Charlotte would have wanted of you? To be a wraith-like shadow of who you really are?”

  “No more than they may have desired to be killed by Cain so that he could make a deal with the devil.”

  “Then why do this to yourself?”

  “It is all I feel anymore. Nothing good. Nothing pure. Just a hollow void and a hatred, burning like the sun, stoked by the evil Cain has wrought. Evil that I, through my inaction, allowed.”

  “I told you that your mother’s and sister’s deaths were not your fault.”

  “It is not only them I think of! All those who died, Uri’el’s brethren, those who followed mother and sister’s rebellion, those whose lives I forced them to forfeit by handing out those damned letters! All the lives since. All those to come. Past, present and future haunt me all at once, Cardea. Coupled with what father has inadvertently done to me, I am barely able to maintain my sanity, let alone think of a future with hope for myself.”

  Cardea looks deeply into Alastor’s eyes, into his soul, finding there the anguish so prominent in his voice.

  “What should I do?” she asks, feeling completely helpless in light of what Alastor has said.

  “Do you hold faith in this nameless God, Cardea?”

  “With all my heart, Alastor.”

  “Then... pray for me. Talk to your God on my behalf.”

  Cardea leaves, on the verge of tears, heading for Essain’s temple, the second largest building in the whole city. Alastor falls down to the ground, still holding the wooden sword, and there he remains, alone, until Taranis visits with him a lifetime later.

  “A nice mess you have made here, Alastor.”

  “My apologies, but I need to spend the time until Cain arrives training.”

  “I would think that real men would offer more resistance than straw ones.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  Taranis smiles, cunning and humored.

  “Wait here,” he says, leaving in a rush.

  Alastor is clueless as to what the King has planned. Taranis soon enough reappears with Uri’el, and with them come winged ones and Taranis’ own Elite Guard. Wordlessly, they surround Alastor, taking up wooden swords. At first Alastor is unsure what to make of this, but then that malignant smile spreads across his face. He stands and they all attack him at once, leading to a grand mock battle which migrates around the whole militia complex.

  Alastor spars with them far into the night, none able to best him. The King, eventually forgetting that this is supposed to only be a means of training, unleashes his full fury on Alastor. Alastor comes to learn the means of controlling the darkness inside, sending Taranis to the ground at every turn.

  And so, the next three days are spent similarly; Cardea is joined by Isolde, Shira and her newborn in the temple, while Taranis leads the others in the preparations, using Alastor to gauge the potential strength of Cain. Alastor uses them likewise, gaining greater and greater mastery of himself.

  The whole time, the rain does not cease.

  On the morning of the day Cain is to arrive, Alastor stays in his allotted section of the castle, watching the lake move as the rain hits its surface.

  A knock at the door.

  “Enter,” Alastor calls out.

  Uri’el walks in.

  “Taranis has given you permission to take what you want from his family’s armory.”

  Alastor reluctantly steps away from the window, following Uri’el.

  “So, a son or a daughter?” Alastor asks while the two walk.

  “A son.”

  “What did you name him?”

  “Ari’el.”

  Alastor smirks, looking to Uri’el.

  “Nice name.”

  “Shira thought so.”

  “She is too kind.”

  “I like the name also.”

  The castle, Alastor comes to discover, is devoid of any of the court. The halls quiet and unlit.

  “A little empty, is it not?”

  “Taranis sent everyone to their homes, to spend time with their families.”

  “Good man.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  “Where is Cain?”

  “Roughly a mile away by now. He is alone, making his way slowly.”

  “Do you think he might be afraid?”

  “Of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe so. He feared you before, and now that you are a bit more difficult to kill, I would believe that fear in all likelihood remains.”

  “What was there to fear? Mother had told me that I was sent to Elenesia so that I could not interfere with him, and it was not the first time she spoke such.”

  “Elizabetha was enigmatic. Frighteningly so, to be honest. Her and Cain were the antithesis of one another. Why she chose him as a husband I could never get her to explain.”

  “Wait... she chose Cain?”

  “You did not know?”

  “I never heard of such a thing. Why the hell would she have chosen a man like Cain?”

  “As I said, she never told me, but that did not stop me from forming an hypothesis.”

  “What is that?”

  “To give birth to you. Cain probably knew this was why she married him, and is probably why he feared you. Why he raised you the way that he did.”

  “How could she know...”

  Alastor stops in the middle of speaking, recalling the ways in which his mother spoke. ‘It is the prayer of my heart that someday, somehow, you will see as I do, Leon.’ Was that a simple hope of him seeing Cain for what he was, or something more?

  “Elizabetha was not normal by any means, Alastor,” Uri’el says with a lower voice. “Part of me wants to say that she was not even human.”

  “Coming from someone that is not human, I am not sure what to think of that.”

  “I have spent enough time with your kind to know when one is abnormal.”

  “Abnormal?”

  The two continue walking to the King’s armory.

  “I have not the words to articulate my thoughts on her, but I know she was different from the rest of your kind.”

  “Was she wholly unique in that regard?”

  Uri’el pauses, formulating his answer.

  “No, actually. She was not, but she was fairly unique amongst the abnormal, with the exception of one, if that makes any sense to you.”

  They enter the armory, finding Taranis there, looking through the weapons, armor and other pieces of equipment.

  “Alastor,” says the King as the two walk in, “feel free to take what you want. You need to be well armed when you fight Cain.”

  Alastor scrutinizes the contents of the armory room, unimpressed. The metal work is good, the swords and shields are expertly detailed, but he finds fault in it all.

  “There is nothing here that could stop father,” Alastor tells Taranis.

  “How do you mean? This is the finest Essain’s smiths have ever produced in the entire history of the kingdom.”

  Alastor takes a simple blade, holds it out and breaks it with his bare hand, sending shards flying.

  “If I can do this, so can he. These might be of use against men, but not him, especially with the armor he wears.”

  “You cannot face him unarmed.”

  “I do not think that will be an issue,” Alastor says, turning to Uri’el.

  Taranis observes them, unsure what to make of Alastor’s somewhat cryptic words and that slight glance between the two.

  “What about armor?”


  “Unnecessary.”

  “So, you will face him unarmed and without armor. Tell me, Alastor... have you gone completely insane?”

  “While I would rather not be without a sword, armor is too cumbersome anyway. And to answer your question: not completely. At least, I do not think I have.”

  Alastor leaves the armory, Taranis and Uri’el following.

  On the streets of Essain, both the army and militia stand, waiting and ready to act if they are needed. The grand courtyard outside the castle is empty. Alastor moves to its center and there he kneels on one knee.

  “Should not you two be with your wives?” he asks Uri’el and Taranis.

  As if hearing Alastor, the castle empties into the court, and the winged ones take to the roofs of Essain’s houses and businesses.

  “While we might not be able to fight him, we will not abandon you to Cain,” Uri’el assures Alastor.

  Cardea comes to Alastor, steps soft as a ghost, carrying a bundle. She falls to her knees, Alastor staring at the bundle in disbelief as she opens it, revealing a leather sheathed sword. The hilt leaves no doubt. Cardea hands it over to Alastor.

  “Lionkiller,” he stammers. “How do you have it?”

  “You told Charlotte to hide it when you came home from Elenesia, remember? In her last letter to me, she explained that it was Elizabetha who told her to send it here.”

  As Alastor unsheathes the blade, a small, tattered piece of parchment falls out. On it is written three words in a delicately beautiful script:

  Take heart, Alastor

  “Mother,” he whispers as he reads it and reads it again.

  He folds the parchment and puts it in his shirt. The horn at the gates is sounded, causing all eyes to migrate toward its direction. As he stands, Cardea embraces Alastor, kissing him softly on his cheek.

  “We have faith in you,” she whispers in his ear. “We always have.”

  Cardea retreats, standing with Isolde and Shira, who holds little Ari’el. The soldiers and militia run up the main road to the castle, fear in their hearts and on their faces. The Guardians on the tops of the buildings flare their wings and growl as Cain passes by them.

  Cain is steady and apathetic to the men and winged as he makes his way up the road, his armor different than it was in Valachia; spikes, hooks and other disgusting things used to literally rip his victims to shreds. Coming into the courtyard, Cain stops, looking around at all gathered there. Inevitably, he looks to Alastor, and then to Lionkiller in his right hand.