The Quest of the Legend (Dark Legacy Book 1)

by A. J. Cronin

  Lisa’s eyes fill with tears, but her heart with anger and hate.

  “Worry not, Your Highness,” another militia soldier says, coming forward from the group. “No one in Essain believed Hector, which is why we started up this little rebellion!”

  Lisa cannot help but smile at the allegiance shown to her and her father. A runner comes up to the idle militia group.

  “We need help at the northwestern quarter!” the runner shouts.

  The militia follow the runner, but Lisa stays in place. The first man she spoke with notices.

  “Your Highness, come with us! Seeing you will undoubtedly give the people a second wind and allow us to crush these traitors!”

  Lisa forgets Amy, forgets Mikha’el, even Alastor. She follows the militia, only thinking of reclaiming the kingdom.

  ~-~~-~

  Amy stands near the Essain entrance alone. She can see Mikha’el, his battle moving deeper into the center of the city. Lisa has gone out of eyeshot completely. Alastor, on the other hand, is still very much visible, farther up the main road, surrounded by Lucius’ dishonored, making progress toward the castle with the speed of one ensnared within a mire. Although she has grown to care for Mikha’el and Lisa, at the forefront of her mind, clawing its way through the years of accumulated hatred and confusion, her love for Alastor blooms full once again. She runs over the bodies and piles of decayed matter toward the Knight so that she might aid him. Running, she remembers the words spoken to her at Valkyr. Fear and hope both battle within her, as clear and as real as the death-giving taking place.

  A sudden sensation of sickness overtakes her, stopping her cold, doubled over.

  “Why would you have come back, I wonder?” a cheerless male voice asks.

  Amy transfigures into her creature form against her will. She cries in pain, her blood becoming like liquid fire, pulsing through her, threatening to rupture her skin. Through the agony, she forces her head up, seeing one like herself. Cale reborn, given a new body but his face remains.

  “Why would a weak traitor like you return!?” Cale demands.

  “To earn a wondrous gift that has been given to me,” she whispers as she pushes through the pain and draws her sword on Cale.

  Cale grins through his dog-like teeth as he catches her sword on his.

  ~-~~-~

  “Wail and cower!” the Knight shouts to the creatures as he swings his blade through some that try to flee.

  The heartbeat has gone silent, or it beats so fast that it has no end. Alastor cannot discern. The remainder of the creatures run in terror, and before Alastor can think of giving chase, Bladers and Berserkers pour out from the castle.

  In Alastor’s left hand, the armor forms a second claymore.

  Even with their immense size and cruel weaponry, Alastor cuts through Lucius’ elite minions just as he did the lesser dishonorable creatures. The few which manage to bring their weapons into contact with the Knight are left unarmed, the metal of their swords and war hammers twisted and shattered by the living tendrils of the armor.

  “This is too easy,” Alastor whispers.

  “How else should it be?” the spirit of Elizabetha responds. “Did you expect to face equals?”

  “Elizabetha, I feel inhuman.”

  “You are wholly unique, separate from all. Even those whose physical strength might far exceed yours, you are unrivaled. Remember this, Son.”

  Again, Elizabetha is a sobering force on Alastor. He stops fighting, letting his more than capable armor do the dirty work. While he strides to the castle indifferently, the Bladers and Berserkers stop attacking, seeing no way to penetrate the Knight’s defense. Alastor ultimately arrives at the grand outer court. Standing at the castle entrance is a lone man, large and ghastly.

  “Rennir,” fumes Alastor.

  “How did it feel to kill me?” Rennir asks as the Knight nears him. “To feel my life end through the steel of your sword?”

  “I felt the most horrible thing a man can feel after killing another: nothing.”

  Rennir examines Alastor’s statement for a moment, finally coming to the conclusion that it was not an insult. Nor does he truly understand the statement.

  “Why Lucius did not let me kill you in Judeheim, I may never know... but here I am, in the land of the living, facing you, yet again. Fate is quite funny.”

  “You have no clue just how funny it actually is.”

  Rennir wastes no more time mincing words, attacking Alastor. The Lucian elites do so as well, thinking Rennir will sap the Knight’s attention. A fatal mistake on their parts, not that they would care; being nothing more than a pseudo-living wall to slow, not stop, the Knight. Alastor does not direct his weapons upon Rennir, only defending while the armor deals in its own way with the elites. Rennir grows angry that Alastor exerts no effort at all to fight him.

  Alastor abruptly falters, a short moment of that non-existence Eoin had told him, warned him, about many years ago. Rennir tries to run his blade into Alastor’s back, but his sword breaks. The armor finishes off the last of the Lucian elites before impaling Rennir against Alastor’s will. The Knight stands, the armor holding up Rennir, struggling upon the tendrils, before him.

  “Are you a coward now, Alastor? Hesitation is for the weak. Kill me!”

  The Knight allows the claymores in his hands to rejoin with the armor.

  “I killed you once. I have no desire to do so again.”

  The armor throws Rennir aside. Without looking back or with a second thought of his foe, Alastor walks to the castle entrance. Lucius’ former right hand is deeply shamed by Alastor’s reluctance to kill him, so he slinks away.

  “You do me proud, Son. Very proud,” Elizabetha whispers as the heartbeat of the armor slowly calms back down to its normal rate.

  Alastor does not answer. He does not need to.

  The castle is barred from inside, not even the slightest amount of give in the doors. The Knight digs his taloned fingers into the wood much like he did when he freed the armor. The talons again form tendrils which burrow in, splinter the wood and twist the iron, opening the way. The interior of Essain castle is lit by those lamps which seem to follow Lucius, smelling horrid and giving an unnaturally colored light. The Knight’s footfalls echo balefully loud within the castle, making it feel far more empty than it in actuality is. The closer he comes to the throne room, the stronger a previously unnoticed scent becomes.

  The Knight’s eyes adjust to the dimly lit hall, and he sees at last the bodies of many militia men strewn about, but not a drop of spilt blood stains the floor. The heartbeat of the armor ceases all together, leaving Alastor with a palpable shade of abandonment and loneliness.

  He thinks for a brief moment that he hears a gasp of horror from Elizabetha.

  Standing at the threshold of the throne room, everything in him goes blank. Thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, fears; all vanish. For a whole life, his life, to point to a singular moment in time is not an easy concept to grasp.

  He brings his right hand up to test the doors, but instead becomes fixated on his metal limb. The doors open of their own volition, bringing Alastor back to his task.

  “Enter,” a voice calls out from within the throne room.

  The voice is not that of Lucius nor of Hector.

  “Take heart, Alastor,” whispers Elizabetha.

  The Son of Eoin steps inside slowly, cautiously, the doors closing behind him. The throne room has been transformed in the time since Alastor was here last. He can see that the wall which he had thrown Lucius through has been repaired, and that the decoration has been changed to something vaguely familiar. Alastor sighs as he comes to recognize the design of this new throne room. He had seen it many times in the past. He used to spend days there by himself, and eventually with Amelia, regardless of the collapsed ceiling which threatened to fall on them at any moment.

  The Essain throne seat itself has changed also. What was once an unassuming seat for the king and his queen is now raised mu
ch higher, a small staircase climbing up to a single seat. All within the masonry, bones seems to have been added like straw into bricks. On this seat, a man sits. Calm, watchful.

  Not Lucius.

  Not Hector.

  “Cain,” Alastor says with absolute coldness.

  “Alastor,” replies Cain in equal measure.

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “The smell of your blood removes all doubt concerning your identity. Offspring of my traitorous son, bearing his name no less. An amusing twist of fate, I must say.”

  Cain stands from the throne seat, the moonlight illuminating his form. He is dressed as a dark king. He laughs smugly while he descends the stairs deliberately labored.

  “Be that as it may, you did not explain how you knew I carried your son’s name.”

  “Did you think I was asleep when you snuck down into my prison all those years ago? No, I was very much awake, and I heard every word you had to say. To be honest, it invigorated me to find one so young and so defiant. It has made these last years quite tolerable.”

  “In that case, I regret ever coming into your prison in the first place.”

  Alastor clenches his fists. The armor reacts to his emotional state, causing spikes and blades to extrude from its surface. This makes Alastor’s already intimidating form even more so.

  “Ah, my beloved armor,” Cain says with grotesque pleasure, “how it has changed. It makes me wonder...”

  “What exactly?”

  “About how different you and I are, of course.”

  “We are nothing alike.”

  “We are not? You are either a liar or naive. You control that armor as none before you ever had, except me. How many lives have you taken over the course of your existence? How many have you killed just to enter this castle tonight? How often did you enjoy the taking of said lives?”

  “I hated myself each and every time I had to kill.”

  “Then you are indeed a liar.”

  “Who are you to call me a liar?”

  “I felt your heart in Arkelon, boy. Although you felt the guilt afterward, during that battle you loved the power. You even thought for the briefest moment that not even God himself could stop you. Do you deny this?”

  “That was nothing but a fleeting thought spawned by the moment.”

  “But there, thought by you, nonetheless.”

  Cain stops halfway down the stairs. Alastor again has a bout with the non-existence, but he somehow expected it, forcing his mind through it.

  “Well done, Alastor,” Elizabetha whispers.

  Alastor does not acknowledge this overtly, rather thanking her for her praise from the safety of his heart. Yet, even so, Cain tilts his head as if confused.

  “Interesting,” Cain says, genuinely astonished. “But for naught. You might be able to control the blood in your veins, but the armor is mine alone.”

  Cain reaches out with his left hand, exerting his will on the armor. The spikes and blades retract, and the armor forces Alastor to his knees. He is now a puppet, the armor his strings. Cain tightens his hand into a fist, forcing the armor to start crushing Alastor within.

  “Dominate it!” Elizabetha calls to him, her own disembodied voice strained.

  The pain of being crushed alive scalds Alastor, Elizabetha’s words falling on deafened ears. In agony and desperation, Alastor whispers.

  “God of my father, I will accept any destiny except this one! I will not die this way!”

  If by answered prayer, or simply made bold by his own words, Alastor forces the armor to cease its constriction. Cain exhorts all his will against this unforeseen resistance. However, like being thawed from a block of ice, Alastor regains control of his limbs and, finally, his whole body. The armor obeys Alastor wholly now.

  With a growl, the Knight forces the spikes and blades return to the surface of the armor.

  Rather than grow wrathful, Cain laughs.

  “Such tenacity! I feared my blood was only diluted through the years. To see it so concentrated in one so young is astonishing. You have done well in bringing him to me, faithful servant.”

  “I thank you, my Dark King,” says a voice from the shadows.

  Lucius steps out, creeping behind Cain, subserviently.

  Alastor makes no movement, lets no emotion brew.

  “Son, remain vigilant,” whispers Elizabetha.

  “First you free me from the confines placed upon me by my son, now you give me his heart reborn. For this, you have rightfully earned your place beside me,” Cain continues praising Lucius.

  “You humble me, My Lord,” Lucius says with a utterly disgusting and unbefitting tone of servitude.

  From over Cain’s shoulder, Alastor can see Lucius’ eyes clearly, scrutinizing him. Alastor can only watch the growing, sadistic grin on his brother’s face. Time seems to stop as he reads Lucius, only now coming to comprehend too late the full extent of the Necromancer’s little game.

  Even with helmet in place, Lucius can see Alastor finally understanding.

  “My, my... little Alastor now sees what he has been so damned blind to since it all began,” Lucius says with a serpent-like hiss. “You said so yourself, Alastor, that Cain would not share power, did you not dearest brother?”

  Cain’s eyes open wide with shock.

  “Brother!?” he yells, starting to wheel around to face Lucius, but he is too slow.

  The Necromancer plunges a blade into Cain’s back, the tip exploding through his chest. As the dark king squirms in torment of the arcane weapon in him, Lucius whispers into his ear.

  “As you murdered for power, so too have I. Do not feel bad, dear Cain; betrayal runs in the family. A tradition you yourself started. Be proud that it has so lovingly been carried on through the ages.”

  The necromantic blade begins to drain the very life from Cain, and eventually he simply disintegrates into dust, his clothes falling pathetically to the ground. The life stored in the blade transfers into Lucius, who loses control of himself, falling to the ground, body wracked by unexpectedly intense pain.

  Alastor tries to strike his vulnerable sibling but, like a coiled snake, Lucius’ sword arm springs upward to catch the attack. As the blade created by the armor and the necromantic blade meet, portions of the armor unbind from Alastor and clasps on to Lucius. It takes everything Alastor has to break the bond of swords, but Lucius is still left with a gauntlet and portions of the arm and chest plates. Alastor’s armor compensates by shifting various parts, including the helmet, to cover the more vulnerable sections of his body. He is also left winded by the sudden decrease in power that the complete armor had previously provided.

  “This is most interesting,” Lucius reflects as he feels the effect of the armor for the first time.

  “What have you done?” Alastor asks, in shock, staring at Lucius with an accusing gaze.

  Lucius moves his eyes from the armor to his brother, about to answer but staying silent for a moment before finally responding.

  “What you could not, Alastor. I have done the thing which you were groomed to do, but had not the faintest hope of succeeding at.”

  It hits Alastor with such force; the realization that Cain is dead, killed by Lucius. Not sleeping. Not weakened. Not confined. Just... dead. And yet, the curse is still present, the darkness still skulking in his depths. Another thought enters Alastor’s mind.

  “You did not simply kill Cain, did you? You absorbed him. Became him. That is why the curse still thrives.”

  Lucius grins widely.

  “One man’s curse is another man’s blessing, brother.”

  Alastor creates a new blade in his hand, poised to attack Lucius. Lucius continues to watch Alastor, grinning, making no attempt to defend himself. Alastor reaches the apex of his swing, all focus on his brother.

  Lucius stands his ground.

  A sword comes down on Alastor’s shoulder with such force as to make his swing go wildly off course, gouging the floor. Lucius tries to imp
ale the staggered Alastor, but Alastor grabs the necromantic blade with his free hand, ignoring the pain of having a sword in that arm’s shoulder. More of the armor uncoils from Alastor’s hand, using Lucius’ weapon as a conduit to travel from the Knight to the Necromancer.

  Alastor manages to pull the necromantic blade from Lucius’ grasp, throwing it aside. When Lucius moves to retrieve it, Alastor frees the sword from his shoulder and there finds Rennir, again. Lucius reappears, he and Rennir fighting against Alastor together; Alastor’s already dim focus now divided between his enemies; he having to be aware of where they are, mindful of his own attacks while also needing to defend against theirs. Rather than fight Lucius as he normally would, Alastor dodges his brother’s attacks, not blocking them, as physical contact would just supply him with more of Cain’s Armor.

  Alastor, a man who has decimated legions of foes is now only able to hold two men at bay, neither gaining nor losing ground to Rennir and Lucius. Lucius’ act of betrayal against Cain has somehow also had an effect on Rennir. The Knight is acutely aware of these facts, which forces a rage to grow inside. The very thought of being weaker than these two marring his mind and soul, while tearing his heart to pieces.

  “Alastor,” Elizabetha whispers. “Listen to me: the bleak future you were raised to accept is no longer there. A new fate will be born this night, and the only thing you must do to attain it is not lose heart and take it! There is a strength and a courage in you that has been hidden for too long, my favored Son. Find it and unleash it!”

  And so, hope is given back to the hopeless.

  Alastor digs deep into the wellspring of his spirit, finding there a primal might. He kicks his brother aside, then coldly strikes down Rennir even easier than he had done in Judeheim. The Knight abandons his armor-born sword, taking instead Rennir’s.

  Alone, for what Alastor hopes is the final time, the brothers continue the duel which they started days previous. No longer using the armor as a weapon prevents Lucius from claiming any more, letting the Knight concentrate solely on the fight.

  The throne room thunders with the sound of their battle. Metal upon metal. The shuffling of their feet. Their heavy breathing.