The Quest of the Legend (Dark Legacy Book 1)

by A. J. Cronin

  “Alastor, you should come see this.”

  Alastor compiles. He too is shocked.

  “What in the name of...?”

  Beyond the door is a massive pavilion spanning three levels high. Along each wall are alcoves on all three floors, seven feet high and three feet wide. In these alcoves are cylinders made of glass, but they stand empty. On the ground level is found row after row of the glass cylinders standing upon pedestals of black stone, also empty. Alastor and Gawain guardedly step into the pavilion. Free from the low ceilings of the room and tunnels, Alastor finally arms himself with his sword properly.

  “What do you make of this, Alastor?”

  “I cannot even begin to fathom.”

  “Nor I. How many of these glass containers do you reckon are here?”

  “Hundreds. Thousands. Far too many for comfort, that much is certain.”

  Slowly they walk down the center walkway which divides the pavilion in half. Alastor looks around, seeing unfinished staircases, beams sticking out of the walls forming the skeleton of what would become second and third floors, as well as an eventual proper ceiling. The floor is made up of black and red marble, beautifully set. Sensing no danger, Alastor and Gawain increase their speed in crossing this strange place, a feat that takes many minutes. Once upon the opposite end, they face yet another challenge: rising before them is a massive staircase which, presumably, will lead them up and out. Gawain takes the first step, but Alastor holds him back.

  “What is it?” Gawain asks him.

  Alastor hands Gawain a small rolled parchment. A note written in a thin, spidery script and signed not with a name, but with an image - that of a dragon.

  “I found this,” Alastor explains, “on one of those men.”

  “Did you?”

  Gawain stares at the note, letting the words burn into his mind. The note reads:

  Captain,

  Word has reached Our Lord that the Essain King has taken the alternate road. Reroute your men with all due haste. Also, be aware that the patrols have just been doubled due to the ‘disturbances’ that seem to be increasing in the forests surrounding this city. Reports blame incidents on an ‘ice fairy.’ Anyone speaking of this creature is to be sent to Our Lord immediately for questioning.

  (Dragon)

  Gawain looks up at Alastor.

  “Interesting that there is no mention of you.”

  “To them, I must be no more than a servant of yours, not warranting of note.”

  “Perhaps an advantage on our part?”

  “Indeed. For now, abandoning the use of my real name seems to be in order.”

  “You sound as though you already have a name in mind.”

  “That I do. How does ‘Tristan’ sound?”

  “Unbefitting. Do you really think it will work?”

  “It will do. If our enemies are simple, it will work. If our enemies are cunning, false names would be the least of our problems.”

  With a reserved smile, the two men begin their ascension of the long stairs. The way climbs ever upward, exit unseen. The steps are long, low and wide to allow large numbers to travel them with minimal fatigue. All along the walls are small sconces holding burning candles. The sheer number of candles makes the staircase brighter than any of the rooms before it. The walls arch up to a high vaulted ceiling. Because of this, wind channels through constantly, causing a low rumbling howl. Occasionally the wind gusts up and pushes the men backwards a bit. Somehow the candles remain lit, with not even a bit of flickering.

  As much as they would wish otherwise, each footfall is an explosion of sound upon the walls, exaggerating the passageway’s size and making them fearful of possibly giving away their presence to any possible sentries ahead. The stairs eventually begin to curve to the left, becoming an upward spiral. After four revolutions, it becomes straight again and a literal light at the end of the tunnel can be seen, albeit some way off; a minuscule pinpoint in the distance. After nearly an hour of slow walking toward the light, they reach the source. The staircase comes up right in the center of the city. They have reached Judeheim.

  ~-~~-~

  The sun has yet to rise, but out in the distance its light is starting to fill the world. The roads are paved with cobblestones, and the sidewalks with a opalescent material. The houses are made of brick with wooden frames. Snow, half melted, still clings to the roofs of the buildings and fills the gaps in the cobblestone. The city itself is as still as a tomb. What should be a busy and bustling market is nothing more than a ghost town. Chimneys stand unused, doors and shutters closed against the outside world. The stairs they had just ascended were a recent addition to the city, from the looks of it, with building instruments still laying beside it.

  King and bodyguard separate a bit, investigating their immediate surroundings. They stand upon the main street of the city, which leads from the city gates and straight on to the citadel at the rear of Judeheim. The banners of the city still fly from the buildings, shops and the citadel itself but they are tattered, having been left to endure the elements for some time evidently. Shipping crates still clog the sidewalks and alleyways, yet sit empty. While exploring, they notice the growing sound of marching on the road. They move to hide as fast as possible; Alastor behind a stack of crates and Gawain under an abandoned, overturned wagon.

  The marching boots reveal themselves to be a company of soldiers. They are most unlike the barbarians dealt with previously. These soldiers are armed with strange, curved blades, bucklers and wear scale armor. They stand five men across, and ten men to a row. To the left and right of the soldiers two additional men march, one on each side. They wear grander plate armor, implying from its superior quality a greater rank.

  Alastor and Gawain remain unseen and, as the soldiers pass, slowly come out from their hiding places. They watch as the soldiers march up to the citadel, two soldiers running forward and opening the large doors to let their comrades inside. Once all are in, the two soldiers close the doors behind, leaving no guards outside. Alastor and Gawain meet back in the center of the street.

  “Soldiers garrisoning in the citadel?” Alastor says aloud, pondering.

  “That makes no sense. The citadel itself is little more than a glorified town hall for the most part. The only protection comes from the catacombs.”

  “So there could in fact be an entire army in there?”

  “No. The catacombs were intended for small groups of unarmed civilians, not a fully equipped army.”

  Alastor looks back to the citadel, sizing it up, searching for signs of internal or external movement.

  “Aside from those that just entered, I see nothing that would lead me to believe it is being guarded.”

  “Nor do I. How do you suggest we enter?”

  “Why not just walk in?” Alastor answers with a shrug.

  With no other discernable ways of entry, they attentively make their way to the citadel, watching for any possible ambushes. At the door, Alastor presses his ear to it, listening for the soldiers, or any other enemies. Hearing nothing, he slowly opens one of the doors and slides in, Gawain following. Their eyes take time to adjust to the low lighting. Crossing the threshold and passing the entrance hall, the door closing behind them with barely a whisper. When Gawain becomes aware of his surroundings, he grits his teeth in anger.

  “This is not the citadel I know.”

  “How so?”

  “It looks as though this place has been gutted like an animal. The outside is merely a facade to fool any who are familiar with the city.”

  Indeed, the whole interior shows signs of having been in the process of deconstruction, with new structure being added around it. Remnants of old pillars are visible, once made of a beautiful black and white marble, now replaced by columns that look as though volcanic rock spires had been twisted together.

  “I have never been in the citadel itself,” Alastor admits. “Even when my father lived here.”

  “Is that so? That is a shame, as this
building you see is nothing like it should be. Someone has perverted this once holy place.” They continue further into the main hall. “I see no signs of that battalion,” Gawain says as he looks the hall over with a more scrutinizing eye. “The overall layout remains. Most of the rooms in the left and right wings are small; bedrooms, libraries, meeting rooms. No place that soldiers would be.”

  “But you do say this place is different.”

  “That is true. However, even though it looks as though the citadel is being converted into a fortified castle, at the same time the outer dimensions are being retained. If I were the one transforming this place, I would expand where prying eyes could not see - down below in the catacombs.”

  “Where would we find them?”

  “Directly ahead and then down the stairs.”

  Alastor gestures that they should head that way. Crossing the main hall, they see that the citadel walls are in the process of being fortified with metal and stone, but work was suddenly stopped. They come to an open stairwell, leading down. A light smoke fills the top of the stairwell, and is coupled with a sickly scent.

  “What would you deem that smell is?” asks Gawain.

  “It is reminiscent of...” Alastor trails off.

  “Of what?”

  “A grave. Death. Rotting bodies.”

  Alastor’s ominous words do nothing to help them, and in resentment of them they descend into the catacombs. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Gawain releases a sad sigh.

  “It is as I feared. The catacombs too have undergone change.”

  The landing is a room with six walls, three passages before them, and a high, domed ceiling. The smoke comes from braziers burning rocks covered in a black liquid. They burn bright, but far from clean. A cacophony of voices, cries and the rattling of cages emanate from the left most passage. Alastor motions to Gawain that they should go that way.

  Another staircase.

  More smoke.

  The fetid smell grows stronger.

  The room at the end of these stairs causes the men to recoil in horror and cover their mouths and noses. They have found the source of the rancid scent. Upon two rows of three tables each, dead men are laid out with black sheets brought up to their chests. They examine the bodies uneasily.

  “Priests! These men were priests of the citadel!” Gawain declares in a hushed tone, not wanting to draw attention. Gawain directs his eyes away from the sight out of respect for them, whispering to himself.

  Alastor gently pulls back the sheet which covers one of the men, revealing that he had been cut open from neck to crotch and roughly sewn back together.

  “Gawain, come look at this.”

  The King stares aghast at the mutilated corpses. How long these men have been dead cannot be determined, but what is clear is that they were brutally experimented upon. A loud shriek comes from further down the passage breaking Gawain’s trance.

  “Your Highness, these men are dead. We can mourn later, but for now let us aid the living.”

  As repulsive as the scene is, Gawain reluctantly turns his eyes away from the dead and follows Alastor. In the passage beyond they come to an open door. Inside is a large room lined with metal cages; cages holding men and women prisoner. A ghoul of a man attempts to pull a woman from one of the cells, but she holds fast to the bars whilst those in other cells yell and shout. Alastor moves to one side of the open door, Gawain to the other. Weapons still in hand, they both peer around the corner into the room. Seeing only the one guard, Alastor slowly skulks into the cellblock unseen by his foe, but not the prisoners. They become quiet and still upon seeing Alastor with massive sword in hand. Alastor prowls to within striking distance. The guard realizes the silence of the prisoners and swings about, but too late. Alastor runs him through, and onward until his blade plunges into the stone wall beyond. Alastor withdraws the sword, teeth grit in rage. He raises the weapon above his head and swings it down like an executioner’s blade, ending the guard’s existence.

  Gawain enters, Alastor’s back to him as he cleans his blade of his foe’s blood. Gawain and the woman whom the guard was trying to take lock eyes and they smile.

  “Your Highness!” she whispers.

  “You know each other?” Alastor asks without turning around.

  “Yes, she is the daughter of one of the High Council members,” Gawain answers. His tone that of relief.

  Gawain looks to the other prisoners. They nod in acknowledgment as their eyes all meet his. The cellblock houses twenty men and women, ten cells on each left and right wall. The prisoners are all relatively young, none appearing to be more than thirty, but all adults. The free woman moves to Alastor, who still stands over the guard.

  “Thank you for your help. I am Dahlia. Who might I ask is the one who saved me?” she meekly asks, trying to get Alastor’s attention.

  Alastor pivots around, looking at the small voice speaking to him. Her face, her gaze, is soft. Alastor’s eyes shift to Gawain, then back to hers before he answers.

  “Tristan.”

  Gawain steps forward.

  “A knight in my court,” he adds.

  “I am in your debt, Sir Tristan,” Dahlia says with a smile.

  “What has happened here?” Gawain asks her.

  “The one known as the Necromancer has claimed Judeheim as his own,” one of the male prisoners says aloud.

  Alastor sneers at the news, Gawain notices, but he can tell Alastor is still not in the mood to speak.

  “Necromancer? Who is that?” Gawain asks the prisoner.

  Another prisoner leans forward in his cell, gesturing for Gawain to come closer.

  “Most of us know little of him, beyond the fact that he is evil. Far more evil than any man should be capable.”

  “To torture us, he killed the citadel priests in the next room and performed his atrocities so that we could hear and smell everything,” Dahlia adds.

  “Do you know what the Necromancer is doing here?” Alastor calmly asks, still not looking at any of the prisoners. “What purpose his experiments serve? Why he chose Judeheim perhaps?”

  Dahlia shakes her head sadly.

  “No,” she whispers. “He has been very careful not to say anything that might betray his motives.”

  “You are surely not the only survivors? There must be others?” Gawain’s voice shaking as he asks.

  “We have heard the guards speak about the rest of the city being corralled in the bowels of the catacombs. We were separated from the rest with the intention of being killed and cut open, like the others,” another female prisoner speaks up.

  The words ease Gawain and rekindle his strength of will.

  “Then I received your letter just in time.”

  Dahlia looks at the King, her head to the side and an eyebrow raised.

  “Letter? We sent no letter. Judeheim was overtaken months ago.”

  Gawain looks to each of the prisoners, confusion etched on his very soul. Alastor peers over his shoulder at Dahlia, wondering if the words that had just passed her lips were the same that he just heard.

  Silence, then...

  Metal bars come down where the door was. Everyone’s gaze darts to the now blocked entrance. Worry on Gawain’s face, unbridled fear on those of the prisoners. Alastor is almost annoyed. All are unsure of what to expect. A loud screeching, like grinding metal, comes from deep within the walls, followed by the sound of stone moving on stone. Everyone looks up to see that the ceiling is separating, with the two halves sliding into the walls. It opens to reveal a second level lined with archers, arrows notched and drawn, ready to release on command.

  Alastor, still facing the entrance, grows darker, focused beyond Dahlia and Gawain and the prisoners. His knuckles become white as he redoubles his grip on his weapon. Gawain comes about, wanting to see what has caught Alastor’s attention. The room with the dead priests has soundlessly filled with soldiers, swords drawn. In their midst a muscular man, covered in black plate armor with red trim, stands with
his arms crossed, smiling. His size, armor and demeanor leave no doubt that he controls the soldiers.

  “Unless you wish me to have them loose their arrows,” the man says, gesturing with one hand toward the archers, “you will give up without a fight.” Alastor and Gawain look at one another, confirming the singular thought in both their minds: they have been caught, and there is no escape. The man can see this in their faces. “Smart. Hand your weapons through the bars, please.”

  Dahlia steps aside as Alastor slowly walks after Gawain, who has already thrust his weapon through the bars, hilt first. Alastor follows his lead, but tosses his weapons out, claymore and dagger, rather than handing them to the two soldiers who stand at the ready. Two other soldiers quickly pick up the weapons and return them to their captain. The bars then raise back up, Gawain and Alastor step out.

  “Who are you?” Gawain demands, eyes burning and focused on the man in black.

  The captain laughs, but not mockingly. More so as one impressed.

  “I would expect no less from a warrior king such as yourself. Since my Master and I deem you worthy, I shall grant you the knowledge of my name. I am Rennir, General and second in command, under the service of Our Lord, known to you as The Necromancer.”

  “And what is his name?” Alastor asks, a tint of venom in his voice. The voice of one who knows, and is trying to insult.

  Rennir approaches Alastor with a scowl.

  “Dogs such as you are unfit to be graced with his name.”

  Rennir strikes Alastor, causing him to fall to one knee. Dahlia cries out, but dares not move. “Dogs like you,” Rennir continues, “are unworthy to even speak of him, or to address those he commands.” Rennir then kicks Alastor to the ground viciously. Gawain begins to move to help, but a spear carrier pushes the tip of his weapon in Gawain’s face. Rennir’s face twists in disgust as he looks at Alastor. “Dogs like you are not even good enough to kneel before those whom he commands. Perhaps not even to clean their boots.”