The Quest of the Legend (Dark Legacy Book 1)

by A. J. Cronin

  “Indeed.”

  “Gawain, I am curious as to why you do not at least alert the militia leaders. If the people are in danger, they should know.”

  “There is more than Samaelites in play, Gallahad,” Gawain says, realizing that Edna has kept Eoin’s identity secret.

  Gallahad picks up in Gawain’s tone that something is missing.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “With luck, it will not matter.”

  Gallahad tries to press his brother for more information, but a Essain swift rider bursts into the throne room.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Gallahad demands.

  “I am sorry, My Lord,” the rider begins to explain, “but this is of the utmost importance.”

  “Speak then,” Gawain urges.

  “Your Highness, a large company of men come upon the road from Judeheim.”

  “So soon? Their representatives would have had to travel through the night to be here already.”

  “I know nothing of representatives, Your Highness, but members of the Council were with them.”

  “That makes no sense,” says Gallahad, looking to Gawain. “Why would the Council be accompanying delegates?”

  The rider looks to the King and his brother, confused somewhat by their apparent lack of understanding.

  “My Lords, I think you misinterpret what I am telling you. The Councilmen do not accompany delegates. They are leading an army.”

  Gawain goes numb, his eyes losing their luster.

  “Are you certain?” the King hoarsely asks.

  “Most certain, Your Highness. I spoke with one of the Councilmen, and to my very own brother, who is one of their army’s number.”

  Gawain falls down into his throne seat, holding his head lest he lose his mind. Not only did Eoin speak the truth, but the matters are far worse than the Knight had led Gawain to believe.

  “What is their number, rider?” Gallahad asks for Gawain.

  “There were six Councilmen, each in command of five hundred men, totaling three thousand, give or take the odd freelance pilgrim who took to the call.”

  “Three thousand?” stammers Gawain to himself.

  “What should I do now?” the rider asks.

  “Ride back out to them, escort them, then come back here once you arrive with our brothers.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The rider bows before swiftly leaving the throne room. Gawain rubs his forehead, trying to alleviate the stress caused by his ever increasing burden.

  “Brother, what would you have me do?” asks Gallahad.

  “I suppose there is no more avoiding it. Gather up the army and Elite Guard, then... then inform the militia captains. Essain is going to war, whether we want to or not.”

  “Very well.”

  “Wait,” Gawain calls as Gallahad makes to follow his orders.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you do anything different if you had accepted this throne?”

  “You are a better man than I, Gawain. I gave you the throne so I would not have to deal with situations like this.”

  “Humor me.”

  “In that case... no. Given the severity of the situation, I cannot say I would do anything different.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gallahad says nothing more, seeing the obvious pain in his brother, and goes to do his duty as Gawain’s second in command. It is then that Edna enters, silent as a ghost’s whisper, yet somehow Gawain knows she is there without looking.

  “I wanted so much for Eoin to be a liar, Edna. Nothing more than some man in black armor. But... everything, even what he said about our ‘fathers of old,’ it was all true, was it not?”

  “Yes. I found numerous references to ‘The Knight.’ whom the kings of Essain held in high regard, but then these gave away to writings of the ‘Black Knight,’ the great villain.”

  “Then Eoin is indeed trustworthy?”

  “I would stake my life that Eoin might be even more trustworthy than Gallahad.”

  Gawain looks up at Edna, not even remotely amused by her insinuation.

  “Even if that were true, it would take much to erase the memories of the Butcher of Theria, and even more to earn my trust.”

  “That, Gawain, is exactly what Eoin is trying to do.”

  The King falls quiet again, dwelling upon these words.

  “Edna, could you please let Persephone and Rachel know that I wish to speak with them?”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Left alone, Gawain no longer has time for loathing, thinking of what may come. Now the only thing in his mind are battle plans. So lost in tactics and maneuvers, he does not take notice as his wife and royal guard enter.

  “You wanted to see us, My Lord?” Rachel speaks, rousing Gawain from his contemplations.

  “Yes. Yes I did. I will not try to soften this: we are going to war alongside Judeheim.”

  Persephone looks to her husband in dismay.

  “I do not understand,” says she, perplexed. “You said that you would not know until you received confirmation from Judeheim.”

  “One of our swift riders returned just moments ago.”

  “And?”

  “Judeheim has built up an army of three thousand, and they march here as I speak.”

  The Queen looks to her husband as though he spoke a foreign language.

  “Judeheim has never formed a traditional army, and never would they venture out to face a foe.”

  “This is correct, wife.”

  “Yet, right now, an army is out upon the road?”

  “There is.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “That the threat posed by the Samaelites is far greater than I was led to believe.”

  “What shall we do, My Lord?” Rachel asks as one ready for a great task.

  “I want you both to stay with Lisa. The militia will be responsible for the protection of the city, while the Elite Guard will be temporarily joining the army.”

  “Then I should join you.”

  “No. I need you two safe.”

  Rachel is disappointed by this.

  “My Lord, I know that I am Lisa’s personal guard, but would I not serve her better by aiding you in battle?” she protests.

  “I cannot risk that. Should the battle go ill...”

  “Should the battle go ill, who is better equipped to come back to our fair kingdom and warn the militia?”

  Gawain stands, ready to counter, when he catches his wife’s eye.

  “She is right, Gawain,” Persephone tells him. “Rachel is your most capable warrior, and should anything go wrong, she might be Essain’s only warning.”

  Gawain knows Persephone’s wisdom is indisputable and, with no chance to change her mind, nods in agreement with her. Rachel and Persephone, as two best friends, embrace before the Queen retreats to her daughter’s bedroom. Edna then enters, bringing with her Gawain’s armor bearers.

  “Your Highness,” she says to him, “it is time to ready yourself.”

  Gawain steps forward, letting the bearers encase him in his royal armor.

  “Rachel, go to the armory yourself. Gallahad should be there, so let him know you will be going with us,” orders the King.

  Rachel smiles, bowing as she leaves.

  “She is Lisa’s guard, yet she is to go into battle with you?” Edna inquires.

  “She is the only member of the Guardians that Essain has, and Persephone thinks that should we fail, Rachel would be Essain’s last hope. Although I know this is all too true, it still does not sit well with me.”

  “You see Rachel as a jinx? That if she comes, it will mean you will lose?”

  “I have no intention of failing, with or without Rachel, but I cannot deny that I feel some degree of apprehension. Dread. Any number of fell emotions concerning this.”

  To this Edna, amazingly, has nothing to say. Before long, the armor bearers finish. They leave as Gawain’s sword boy enter
s, presenting the King with his ancestral weapon, a sword handed down from father to son, gaining a mythical status within Essain. Gawain straps the sword to his hip before giving the sword boy a glance, a nod and a clasp of his shoulder, a sign of deep respect. The ward too leaves, then Edna proudly sets upon Gawain’s brow a crown; though made of gold and silver, it is of simple construction, akin to a circlet.

  “Let us go out into the courtyard. I will not hide in this room any longer,” Gawain says defiantly.

  ~-~~-~

  The army has begun to assemble within the grand court, Gallahad taking stock of their numbers. Members of the militia have also gathered, wanting to hear from the King himself what is happening. Seeing Gawain emerge from the castle, the massive crowd becomes very loud, a hundred different questions being asked in one voice. Gawain raises his hand for silence, then points to one of the senior militia captains, allowing him to speak.

  “Is it true? Are we going to war?” the man asks, worry and anger and fear all in his voice.

  The crowd of soldiers all shout in agreement with the question. Gawain waits for quiet before speaking.

  “It is indeed true,” Gawain shouts so that all can hear. “Very soon, Essain will ride to war.”

  “Against who?” a faceless voice amongst the crowd asks.

  “To our south, three kingdoms, devoutly loyal to Samael, have gathered together.”

  “Three kingdoms? If that be the case, why are not the militia being called up as well?” asks another.

  “I will not, cannot, leave Essain, our home, our heart, undefended. The militia always has, and always will be the protector of our fair city.”

  “But how can just our army repel three kingdoms worth of foes?”

  “We will not be alone. For the first time ever, our kith-kingdom, Judeheim, has gathered its own army, formed from their citizens and from pilgrims alike. Their numbers shall join with our own. Even as I speak, they march to us.”

  As though on cue, a trumpet blows from the city gates. The crowd hums with murmurings, all turning to watch the main road. Gawain pushes through the gathered masses, separating it. He sees, walking up the road, the swift rider leading the six Councilmen-turned-generals and in their midst, encircled by the Council, Eoin.

  The Knight towers over all near him, his armor drawing to him the eyes of Essain, fear of him gripping the hearts of even the stoutest, war hardened man. When they finally stand before the King, the swift rider bows his head, then falls in with the army. Beside Eoin, somehow previously hidden from view, is a man slightly taller than the Knight wearing a hooded tunic and cloak. The Councilmen part, allowing Eoin to step forward, meeting again Gawain’s scrutinizing gaze.

  “You said Judeheim was sending representatives, Knight. I see a fair share more than that,” Gawain says with a touch of dark sarcasm.

  “I felt it prudent not to divulge their true nature.”

  “Why?”

  “I had an overwhelming desire to continue living beyond the night. For someone such as myself to talk of a Judeheim army... well, I doubt you would have listened to a further word from my mouth.”

  Gawain smirks at Eoin’s logic.

  “I cannot deny it, I am afraid.”

  “I would not want you to. It is a testament to your justness that I was not killed immediately.”

  “You have Edna to thank for that, more than myself.”

  “You could have ignored her.”

  “You do not know Edna then.”

  The two share a laugh while the combined kingdoms watch on. Seeing his brother on such friendly terms with one so imposing, Gallahad can do naught but stare in fascination at the Knight. In contrast of his outward appearance, the voice that issues forth from behind the helmet is calm, just and good.

  Rachel comes out from the armory. She catches sight of Eoin and a roar of rage bellows from her. She takes to the air, blade drawn, ready to strike down the Black Knight. Swift as lightning, the cloaked man beside Eoin leaps up, his cloak springing open to reveal wings. He and Rachel meet in mid-air, crashing to the ground. Rachel thrashes against the winged man, shouting and swearing, but he holds to her fast.

  “Let go of me! He killed them all! The Butcher! The Monster!” she yells, her eyes shut.

  “No!” the winged man tells her adamantly. “He is not that one.”

  The voice causes Rachel to become still immediately. She opens her eyes, unable to comprehend who she is looking at for a time.

  “Mikha’el!”

  “Hello, sister.”

  Mikha’el stands, helping Rachel to do so also. Brother and sister embrace, but her eyes quickly revert back to Eoin, who stands most vulnerable.

  “He is the Black Knight. I saw firsthand what he did. Butcher of Theria!” she hisses through her teeth, then staring back at Mikha’el with aching soul. “How can you defend him!?”

  “He is the Knight, but he is not the one that committed those atrocities. His name is Eoin. He was the son of the reviled one, but he is nothing like his father.”

  The words wash over Rachel, bringing out a different person all together.

  “You can not mean to tell me that he is the one written of,” she whispers to Mikha’el.

  “We are still not sure,” one of the Councilmen answers Rachel, keeping his voice down so that only she and Mikha’el can hear. “We believe so, but more study is needed.”

  “So, Eoin is genuine?” Gawain asks of the Council. “He is not what his father was?”

  “Eoin is what he is. A man trying to right the wrongs of his past.”

  “Then Judeheim ‘approves’ of him?”

  “Indeed we do. He has spent the better half of the past year with us, enduring our questioning. In all honesty, we are the ones who sent him here.”

  Gawain and Gallahad are taken by surprise a bit by this small revelation.

  “Is this true?” Rachel asks Mikha’el.

  “Yes, sister,” he answers.

  “How did you become involved with him?”

  “I had a dream, actually, so I sought him out. I found Eoin in Judeheim, and there learned his rather noble intentions.”

  “Which are?”

  “To undo, or at least attempt to make up for, the evils of my forefathers,” Eoin says, walking up to Rachel and Mikha’el. “I have become used to saying this, but I know my word means nothing to you, yet hopefully Mikha’el’s does. Any aid you can give me would be of great value.”

  “That would depend on what My King says. I serve him and his family.”

  All heads turn to Gawain. The King looks into Eoin’s eyes, visible through the narrow slit of his helmet. Eoin stares back with strong, calm, compassionate eyes.

  “I think we will find no better ally this day,” the King says slowly, thoughtfully.

  Eoin extends an open hand to Gawain. The two kingdoms watch as Gawain takes it and the two men shake hands, sealing the alliance. A strong wind blows through the gathered. Reluctantly a Councilman steps forward.

  “Gawain, we must now speak in brief of the battle to come.”

  Gawain acknowledges this, then addresses the crowd.

  “The army is to assemble and report to Gallahad on all things. As for the militia captains, inform those in your command, and your families, of what has occurred, then take up your assigned positions in the city.”

  The word of Gawain is obeyed without hesitation. The militia disperses while the army forms ranks. The King guides Eoin and the Council back into the library. They all sit down to the table.

  “Eoin,” the oldest of the Councilmen speaks, “perhaps you should inform good King Gawain of what we know concerning the three armies.”

  While standing at the head of the table, Eoin does so.

  “The Samaelite army was formed from the populations of three small, obscure kingdoms to the far south, outside our realms of influence and knowledge.”

  “This is interesting, but I care little about how this force was formed,” Gawain says
impatiently. “All I want to know his how large their army is.”

  Eoin removes his helmet, setting it down on the table.

  “I was unable to obtain solid numbers. It could range from five to one hundred thousand, not that it would matter either way.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They are from bad stock, one might say. Castaways from the degenerate kingdoms of old.”

  “Eoin, this makes no sense. Earlier you made it sound as though this battle was a matter of life and death,” Gawain interrupts, annoyed.

  “Let the man finish,” the Councilman says.

  Eoin’s eyes grow sad, dark and removed.

  “The men on their own are nothing to fear, this is true. Except they are not alone. They are led by a man named Mors, whose very presence seems to transform the men into perfect instruments of killing. They have become so loyal to Mors that they would risk their very souls if he so asked.”

  The name ‘Mors’ stirs up the phantoms of the past in Gawain’s head. He struggles to remember, but draws a blank.

  “Why does that name sound so familiar?” he asks himself.

  “He has gathered this army in the Wastes,” Eoin says, not hearing Gawain.

  Gawain comes to, rejoining the conversation.

  “The Wastes? The desert beyond the Magda valley?”

  “The very same.”

  Magda valley is a conundrum to all. Upon its northern side rests the Grey Woods of Essain’s southern border. To Magda’s south, the Wastes, a place where nothing grows. When one stands upon either of these borders, looking to the opposite side offers a sense of the surreal, like looking on a far off painting. As for Magda itself, none knows how it was created, but all recognize it as unnatural and to be avoided at all costs.

  “You intend for us to meet them at Magda, and to fight within the valley itself, am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Wonderful,” the King says, leaning back in his seat with a defeated tone.

  “Fret not,” the Councilman speaks.

  “How can I not? It was bad enough that we know not the size of our foe, but now we must face it in the one place forsaken by God.”

  “Forsaken? Possibly, but perhaps that is for the best.”

  “How can that be good for us?”