The Quest of the Legend (Dark Legacy Book 1)

by A. J. Cronin

  As the King opens Leon’s cell himself, the Valachian prince is struck curious by those words, but he holds his tongue. The King reaches down to help Leon from the floor, which he accepts gratefully. After dusting himself off, Leon is guided out of the dungeon and outside, from a small, thick building standing beside the castle.

  “Dungeon?” Leon sarcastically asks, realizing that it was simply a room made up to look like a dungeon.

  “Allow a king his indulgences. We do not believe in torturing our evil, though a cell made to look like a dungeon usually has the same effect on a man. The word simply slipped out when it came to you.”

  The King and Leon return to the castle, going to the gardens within its center, where the Queen sits in waiting. She smiles at seeing her husband, or so Leon thinks. She stands and walks directly to him.

  “I am glad to see you well, sir,” she says. Her voice much different than the cruel one that confronted him in the throne room only a day before.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” replies Leon.

  “I am Taranis,” the King speaks, “and this is my beloved wife and queen, Isolde. By what name shall we call you?”

  The memory of his conversation with that sweet disembodied voice revisits him, the voice which asked who he was.

  Which was the real him, and which was the mask?

  The Valachian prince stammers for a moment, unsure what to say. He looks to Taranis, then Isolde, and back. They can both see the turmoil in his eyes, trying to decide the answer to what should have been a very simple question.

  He remembers now his mother.

  He remembers too Charlotte.

  Remembering Charlotte makes him think of Lionkiller.

  In remembering Lionkiller, he recalls the name given to him.

  “My name is Leon.”

  The King and Queen smile at each other upon hearing this.

  “Very well, Sir Leon. Let us walk the grounds as we speak,” says Taranis light heartedly.

  Isolde joins them as they walk aimlessly around the gardens.

  “I do not understand,” Leon starts. “Yesterday, you looked at me as though you would have wanted nothing more than to kill me. Both of you. Yet, now, you act toward me as one might an old friend.”

  “Even after all we were told about you, I found it - ”

  “We,” Isolde quickly interjects.

  “Yes. We found it hard to separate you from your father.”

  “After being told? Who could you possibly be speaking with about me?”

  “Uri’el,” Isolde answers. “He spoke to you about western kingdoms that would fight with you, did he not? We, along with Judeheim to our north, are those of which he spoke.”

  “Uri’el?” whispers Leon. “Is he here?”

  “No. He avoids coming here as much as possible, lest Cain become overly suspicious.”

  “But my father clearly did. He sent me here as a spy.”

  “Husband?” says Isolde, looking to Taranis.

  “Leon, I do not think that ‘spy’ is the right word,” Taranis says.

  “No?” asks Leon.

  “No. Uri’el and you were close friends, were you not? And Cain is, after all, a very paranoid man...”

  “What? He thought Uri’el and I were plotting against him? If that were the case, why send me to my allies?”

  “I wish we knew.”

  Leon gets to thinking of Uri’el and the last time they spoke. Without meaning to he has stopped walking, sitting upon the edge of a raised flowerbed.

  “Is something amiss?” asks Isolde.

  “The last time Uri’el and I spoke did not fare well.”

  “So he told us.”

  Isolde’s maid comes out, carrying a small platter of food. The maid nods to her mistress and the King, then stands before Leon.

  “For you good sir,” she says, presenting the food to him.

  Leon looks to Taranis, who gestures for Leon to accept. Taranis and Isolde both sit on a stone bench opposite Leon.

  “You did not have to bring me anything,” Leon says to the maid, feeling somewhat guilty.

  “It was no problem. I thought you might be hungry, so I quickly prepared this for you.”

  Leon smiles, both at her kindness and the familiarity of her voice. Leon accepts the platter of food with a nod. The maid leaves with a small bow, looking keenly into Leon’s eyes. Leon likewise stares into her shining green eyes, making her pause momentarily before finally leaving. While he eats, the Valachian prince continues the conversation.

  “What I do not understand is how only two, rather meager from what I have seen, kingdoms can hope to defeat Valachia. Our army is second to none and equipped with the best weapons and armor money can buy. And that is all without me bringing up the Dread Knights, father’s beloved death dealers.”

  “I never said it was only two kingdoms,” Isolde replies with a clever grin. “There are others, I assure you, but it would be most unwise to reveal their names.”

  “And you should know, Leon, that weapons and armor alone do not an army make,” Taranis adds. “The will to live, to survive, to protect, to live in peace and harmony, these things are stronger than the desire to conquer.”

  “What about the Dread Knights?”

  “Reputation more than anything fuels them. Fear is their greatest weapon and without it, they are but men, encased in metal and leather. Nothing more, Leon. Metal can be cracked, leather torn, men slain.”

  “I still do not see how you can possibly overcome my father,” Leon pessimistically rebuts.

  “It is not in the strength of our arms, in steel and iron, we place our faith, Leon, but in our very hearts and souls.”

  “I do not follow.”

  “We believe God himself will aid us, in his way.”

  Leon shakes his head.

  “You do not believe in God?” Isolde asks.

  “Religion died in Valachia long before my father became king.”

  “We are not speaking of religion, of mechanically repeating vows and prayers, but of faith.”

  “I see no difference.”

  “Have you never turned your eyes upward, asking something unseen, unheard, for help?”

  Leon peers into Isolde’s very soul. The road to Elenesia does he travel again in mind’s eye. A road best left neglected to the ravages of time.

  “I would be a liar if I denied ever doing so.”

  Leon finishes his food, but the maid is nowhere to be seen to take the platter back.

  “Just leave it on the edge of the flowerbed,” Isolde tells him as she and Taranis stand.

  “So you are absolutely resolved to face Valachia,” Leon speaks as the trio continues walking. “I can see there would be no maneuvering you from this course, but how do you intend to do it? Valachia was designed to be siege proof, with streets that taper at specific points and lead out into open courts. Any army that might enter would become nothing but fodder for our archers.”

  Taranis and Isolde laugh together.

  “You never paid much attention to Uri’el, did you?” Taranis asks.

  “Apparently not,” Leon answers, frustrated.

  “Worry not, for I know how to make it all clear.”

  Taranis and Isolde guide Leon out of the castle, walking along the western road and soon coming to a walled court. Within there are many men and women, dressed in what might be described as peasant clothing, training at sword play and battlefield tactics. There are a few armored men acting as trainers.

  “What is this?” inquires Leon.

  “Essain keeps a standing army mostly for appearances, occasionally for special uses, but they do not make up our primary means of protection. No. The people themselves are our sword arm.”

  “Militia? Are you trying to tell me that there is a secret militia in Valachia?”

  “There has been for some time, Leon.”

  “And Uri’el leads it? He has been trying to recruit me?”

  “Recruit you yes. Make
you a general. The general to be more exact. However, he does not lead it.”

  “He is our contact,” Isolde adds. “But the true leader has always remained hidden.”

  Leon hangs his head with a sigh, leaving the training compound.

  “What is wrong?” asks the Queen in her gentle, sweet voice.

  Leon starts to laugh, the laugh of a man who has had a horrid secret revealed.

  “Leon?” speaks Taranis.

  “I know who the Valachian militia leader is. When last Uri’el and I spoke, he tried to tell me. Mother tried so hard to tell me as well. I am a coward. A blind, stupid coward.”

  Before either Taranis or Isolde can ask what Leon is talking about, a horn call goes up from one end of the city, then another and another.

  “Someone or something nears the city!” shouts Taranis.

  Taranis starts to run toward the city entrance, Leon following close behind, but they need not run far to find the reason for the alarm: the sky has become full of the Guardian race. As they finally cross into Essain proper, many fall to the ground in exhaustion, those who are able to land on their feet immediately move to the aid of their brethren. Hundreds descend upon the city, most bearing wounds hastily bandaged, if at all. One such flier lands in front of Leon. The Valachian prince runs to this one, quickly embracing her only to find that it is none other than Uri’el’s wife, her arm cradling the child still inside her.

  “Leon!” she cries as she sees who holds her.

  “Shira, what are you doing here!?”

  “Your father has done a terrible thing!” she says from behind clenched teeth.

  “Taranis, please see to the help of the others!” Leon demands, seeing the Essain King standing beside him.

  Taranis wastes no time, and does not object to being ordered. Isolde kneels beside Leon, she too awaiting orders.

  “What can I do?” she asks.

  “She is with child. Help me take her inside, please.”

  Shira catches a glimpse of Leon’s eyes.

  “You are different,” she says to him as he and Isolde help her to stand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your eyes have changed.”

  “They have not changed. They have been opened.”

  “It is about time,” Shira says with a smirk.

  Isolde takes them into a part of the castle away from the shouts and running of the castle court going to the winged ones’ aid. They sit Shira down on a couch, Isolde beside her, Leon kneeling. Shira still pants, tired beyond words. She caresses her stomach, thinking only of the child within.

  “Isolde, can you fetch Shira some food and water?” Leon asks of the Queen.

  Isolde does as instructed, leaving Leon and Shira alone.

  “Leon, Cain has finally gone truly mad,” Shira whispers.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “After you left, he closed Valachia. The next day, he sent the Dread Knights to kill us.”

  “What? You and Uri’el?”

  “No, all of us winged kind.”

  “Why?”

  “He learned that we made up the bulk of the opposition. The second he sent the Dread Knights after us, battle broke out through all of Valachia.”

  “Is Uri’el with you?”

  “No, he is still there, now leading the militia, or he was when I left him. Leon... I... there is something I need to...”

  “What, Shira?”

  Shira tries to speak, but is overcome with emotion, starting to cry uncontrollably.

  “I am so sorry! We tried to protect them,” is all she can say, Isolde returning as she does.

  Leon dares not speak. In his heart that old fear laughs in his face, cackling.

  That old fear has his father’s voice.

  “Isolde, take care of Shira,” Leon says before storming out of the room.

  He runs outside of the castle, searching for Taranis. Leon finds the King amongst a group of Guardians, who fill the King in on what has transpired.

  “Where is my horse?” Leon demands of Taranis.

  “In the stables. Why?”

  “I have to ride back to Valachia now.”

  “I shall go with you,” Taranis says without needing to think.

  “No. I am going alone. You need to stay here. Just show me to the stables.”

  Taranis can see the anguish in Leon’s eyes and obliges without protest.

  ~-~~-~

  Reunited with his animal, Leon gallops at full speed out of Essain, bounding onto the Valachian trade road, this time taking the shorter of the two. He rides without ceasing. For all the remainder of that day and into the next, horse and rider share the same heart and mind. They cover nearly all the distance to Valachia, but the animal can take no more, its heart of flesh gives in, causing the good animal to die instantly in mid-stride.

  The crash should have killed Leon, but he stands without injury, the briefest of moments of mourning passing before he begins to run on foot, forced to leave his friend behind.

  An unnatural speed propels him, he running faster than even his horse under the best of conditions. Why can he run so? He does not care. Anything that can get him home sooner is welcome with open arms.

  Leon comes to Valachia before dawn has fully broken. The western gates are firmly shut, barred from within. Fueled by rage, he rams the gate with his shoulder, causing it to jolt and buckle violently. Leon taps into some hidden strength, ramming the gate again, causing the crossbeams on the other side to crack. With a final surge of inhuman power, he crashes through the gates, destroying the crossbeams and leaving the doors open in his wake. Leon is grossly unprepared for what lays beyond; bodies of men and winged kind alike are strewn about, littering the ground, the streets red with their blood. Dread Knights patrol, finishing off any survivors amongst the dead, ignoring Leon as soon as they look upon him.

  Leon runs headlong to the Valachian castle, holding back the dam of emotion building as he looks upon the bloody ruin of his city. The outer court of the castle is more a slaughter house floor than any place where some joyous celebration might have ever been held.

  Leon stops before the steps to the castle.

  “Father!” he yells with scorching fury. “Show yourself!”

  From the castle entrance emerges a figure, tall, clad in black, horrific armor. He walks with slow and measured steps out, standing at the head of the stairs.

  “Alastor, I had so hoped never to even see you again. But, seeing as you have returned, I shall gladly be the first to welcome you home,” Cain says, supreme evil exuding from his voice.

  “What have you done!?” demands Leon.

  “I have done nothing any other king would not do when faced with insurrectionists: I executed them.”

  The two stand motionless, staring at one another.

  “Where is Charlotte and mother?” Leon finally asks.

  Cain laughs, his low, sinister laugh reaching out and striking the walls, multiplying them until it sounds as though a thousand Cain’s are laughing at Leon.

  “To think that my own wife and daughter were the ones leading the opposition to me, but in the end it was most fortunate.”

  “Where are they?”

  “You should know that they not once implicated you. I am sure that their loyalty is soothing to your conscience. Then again, maybe it is not,” Cain says with another small chuckle.

  “Where are they!?” repeats Leon.

  “It was their blood that sealed my pact with Samael,” Cain answers, raising his arms, staring at his gauntleted hands, “and it was Samael who forged this armor for me, using my... sacrifice.”

  Leon swoons at the ramification of Cain’s words. He had suspected. Feared. Cain’s words have a finality, cold and cruel.

  “Monster!” he roars.

  “Foolish child. I spent so many years trying to warn you of the price betraying me would bring. Now you, like those whores, shall pay with your life.”

  Leon leaps toward his father, up the
flight of steps in a single bound, arms outstretched. Leon is stopped in mid-air just before Cain. Cain laughs as he sees Leon’s confused face. Leon looks down to see what has stopped him, discovering himself impaled upon Cain’s sword. The Valachian king flings his son away with a snicker. Leon rights himself in the air, landing as if unwounded at all. He leaps back up against his father again, this time mindful of the sword.

  Landing weightlessly, Leon grabs his father’s arms as he tries to swipe his sword at his son.

  “I will rip you apart for what you have done!” Leon growls, unyielding hatred seething in him.

  “I think not, child.”

  Cain strikes Leon using his armored head, ripping a gash in the prince’s face. While his disowned son is staggered, Cain slashes Leon down across his chest. The strike would have cut an ordinary man in twain, but Leon, it would seem, is no longer an ordinary man. The prince falls down the stairs, hitting the ground hard. He stands defiantly, but his knees buckle. Cain descends the stairs, ready to finish his son off.

  From nowhere, Uri’el swoops down, embracing Leon. The winged one looks up with loathing at Cain, a gash running down from the center of his forehead to the left side of his jaw, his left eye missing.

  “You shall pay dearly for what you have done, Cain. It will be God’s will,” says Uri’el before taking to the air carrying Leon.

  “God’s will?” Cain yells in retaliation. “Your god has no strength left in this world. Run back to Essain, cowards. I will deal with you soon enough and show you true strength!”

  Uri’el flies fast and far, never looking back to the accursed city. When far outside of Valachian influence, Uri’el lands, Taranis awaiting. Leon runs away from them both, still covered in his own blood. He runs and runs into the trees, trying to outrun his grief but the grief finally lashes out, ensnaring him. He falls to his knees, the truth striking him harder than any blow or sword swipe his father could have given him.

  Charlotte and Elizabetha are dead.

  Murdered by Cain.

  He cannot hold the anguish inside, crying to the heavens, tears streaming down his face, mingled with blood. He pounds his fists into the ground, yelling at the top of his lungs until his mind can take no more and he passes out.

  ~-~~-~

  He wakes in a nice bed, light from an overcast sky outside coming in through a window to his right, the sound of rain gently pelting the glass creating a pleasant rhythm. He groans as he stretches his sore muscles. The sound of his waking rouses a woman who had been sitting beside his bed. She jumps from her chair, standing over Leon.