The Search for a Legend (Book 1 of Quest for Knowledge) - Christopher Jackson-Ash (free books to read txt) 📗

he carried a sheathed broadsword. As his hologram towered over them from the dais, Simon noted his regal bearing. He was tall and well built, perhaps thirty years old. His hair was jet black and cut short, matching his beard. His voice was steady and strong and indicated a man well used to public speaking. While everything in his body language displayed strength and pride, Simon quickly concluded that here stood a desperate man.

 

“I am Gamying, Heir-Regent of Tamarlan. Our city has long been a peaceful haven for artists of all kinds. My family has ruled, unbroken, justly and fairly for more than ten thousand years. I travelled alone but I carry the blessing of my father Gamyon Regent of Tamarlan. We still have hope that one day our King will return out of Northland, whence he was lost.” How do you lose a king for ten thousand years and expect him to return?

 

Gamying’s eyes seem to dart around his audience without ever making eye contact. “I have travelled long and hard for the passes of the Devil Mountains are still closed with snow and strange fell creatures hunt there for the souls of the living, and the dead too for all I know. I came to Devil’s Mouth after barely surviving Suicide Pass and came down the Fang Glacier on a Dwarven Ice Ship. The streets of Fang were strangely quiet and the South Road to Elvenhome is now no more than a pitted goat track riddled with weeds. It seems that Entropy rules south of the mountains now too. I was glad to find the old wooden bridge over the Idigna still well maintained and came at last to Tar, where I found the famed hospitality of old still in evidence. I rested there for several days before taking a wagon to Elannort.”

 

“The situation in Tamarlan grows more serious every day. The winter has been long and hard. Spring has not yet come, north of the mountains. The people begin to grow hungry. Wargs have been unusually active and seem to have lost all fear. They hunt in huge packs and have even entered the city. Babies have been taken from their cribs. The old and the weak cower in fear in their homes. Raiding parties of strange men come upon the city out of Northland with monotonous regularity. Our resources are stretched to the limit. The artists would leave the city but there is no escape unless the passes of the Devil Mountains are open. The Frozen Wastes grow ever closer and threaten our fields. I fear for our very existence. Never more have we yearned for the return of our King.” I wonder what Wargs are? They sound very nasty. How would a king fix it?

 

Gamying paused for a moment and his eyes moved away from Manfred and sought out Simon and Jhamed. For a brief moment, he finally made eye contact with Simon. There is both hope and despair in his eyes. He turned again to Manfred. “Is it true, as I have heard rumoured, that Gilgamesh is reborn? Will you send the Great Hero to aid us in our darkest hour? Please!” He sat down. The agony of his final plea hung in the air.

 

Manfred stood briefly and scanned the room. He held each participant in brief eye contact before his gaze passed on. Patience; he seemed to say without speaking. All will be revealed in due course; we will hear all of the news first.

 

An elegant woman, who was surrounded by four heavily armed guards, stood and bowed low to Manfred. Her hair was long and dark. It flowed down her back like a mountain stream in springtime. A white flower, garlanded in her hair stood out in stark contrast, matching her alabaster skin. Her clothes were understated elegance, well-tailored to suit her tall, slim frame. Simon’s first glance judged her to be a young beauty and his groin gave an involuntary response. As she stood erect again though, he realised she was much older, perhaps in her fifties. Simon shuddered. She’s old enough to be my grandmother, ugh.

 

“Greetings, Manfred and honoured guests. I am Rheanna of Rhakotis, custodian of the Great Library. Rhakotis, jewel of the Middle Sea, is the centre of academic excellence. For many years, our scholars have been studying fragments of the ancient texts that prophesy the end of FirstWorld in the Final Battle between Law and Chaos. Our studies suggest that there may be a way to prevent this. It involves the coming of a hero – the Everlasting Hero – who will lead us to a New Beginning, a new age if you will. He must wield the Sword. It must be found again.”

 

“I have brought with me many scrolls and I will present the results of our studies at the appropriate time. My message now is one of hope. Rhakotis still stands, unaffected by the tribulations that affect the rest of the world. Our lighthouse shines as bright as ever, guiding the great trading ships that still dock in our port. We hear news, of course, and many of us begin to be fearful. It is said that bandits now frequent the Sumar to Erech road, but we saw nothing of them on our journey here, though we had a strong escort to guard us.” She bowed low to her guards. “Erech seemed uneasy and I too was glad to reach Tar. The land between the Great Rivers made me unwell – there is a feeling of death and decay there.” Her face was gaunt and her expression stark. She talks of hope but reflects despair. Her mood has affected the whole room, plunging it into gloom.

 

She sat. The words she had spoken made Simon uneasy. They expect me to save them. How can I be the Hero? When she had mentioned the Sword, his left hand had begun to tingle, as if with pins and needles. A strange longing came over him and then was gone in an instant. My sword! I am missing a part of me. Where is my sword? Take a grip, Simon. I’ve never so much as held a sword. Was I searching for a sword in my dreams? I can’t remember.

 

His concentration restored, Simon saw that another woman was now addressing the meeting. Simon did a double take. Bloody hell! She’s a Vulcan from Star Trek. She’s the spitting image of T’Pol from the old reruns of Enterprise. The woman was slim and petite, with dark, short-cropped hair that highlighted her arching eyebrows, a thin nose, and pointed ears. She was wearing a full-length body suit, in a strange glimmering material, which hugged her lithe body. Simon felt the twinge in his groin again. One of his great fantasies was getting off with T’Pol.

 

“I have answered your summons, Manfred, though I have little hope left. It is good to see you again, Elven Friend; it has been too many years since we have seen you in Elvenhome and shared bread and mead as the sun set over the Gardens of Eden. Rheanna speaks the truth when she tells of the decay in Eden. Whatever the outcome of the Final Battle, it is terminal decay. The time of the elves is past. It is the time of humankind now, and the destiny of FirstWorld and the multiverse is in their hands. Still, we will provide whatever help and advice we can. But, I warn you, we look inwards now as we prepare for our final days.” The elven woman’s depression seemed to deepen the atmosphere of despair. She is so beautiful but so sad. I’d like to be able to cheer her up.

 

“My name, in the common tongue, is Ceridwen. My elven name translates to Evening Star of the Sylvan Peoples, for we have long known that our time is ending. I am the last queen of my people and when I was young, I feasted in Tamarlan with the kings and visited Rhakotis before the Great Lighthouse was built. Yet I am still young in the manner of my people, for elves have long life spans; so long that men often think of us as immortal. Not as long as wizards, I would guess. I remember, as a child, playing on Manfred’s knee, and he was an old man then.” She looked at Manfred and smiled at the memory. Her smile was like sunrise on a frosty winter’s morning. The earlier feeling of despair was washed away. I have never seen anyone so beautiful. I would die if it meant she could live. Do I mean that? She has bewitched me.

 

Ceridwen focussed again and her expression turned serious. “We have lived in the Gardens of Eden, called by men the Forbidden Forest, since the Beginning. After the Sundering, we were spread all over the multiverse. In some places, we prospered, but in most, we were treated with suspicion or hunted down and killed. As the Firstborn, many of us had the power to cross the dimensions, so we travelled far and wide encouraging all elves to return home to FirstWorld. We offered a haven of peace and tranquillity. For millennia, elves have returned to FirstWorld through the dimensions on great sailing ships, landing at Haven on the Great Inland Sea and passing along the Elven Road to Eden. There has not been a ship now for many long years.” Ceridwen sighed and Simon thought he could see a tear run down her pale cheek. “Though we live long lives, we are blessed with few children. In recent times, children have become fewer and fewer. The sound of children’s laughter has not been heard in the Ancient Wood now for over five thousand years. The trees have forgotten them. We haven’t. Every year, when the ice melts in the mountains and the two great rivers flood the gardens and woods and renew their vitality, we remember the children and their songs. It is already late spring in the gardens. For the first time ever, there has been no flood this year. Now I understand. Winter still holds fast in the mountains. It is a bad sign. I fear for the dwarves.”

 

She paused for a moment and it seemed to Simon that a pained expression crossed her face. “Even I am not old enough to remember the Sword, whose name I will not speak. I have heard the tales, indeed they are still told on long winter evenings, though there are no children to frighten these days. The tale still frightens me, however, and it would be a last resort that It should ever be found and used again. Once it was a great sword, the greatest sword ever, fashioned by elven smiths from meteorite iron. It was unbreakable. It was blessed by the Elven Lords and protected by great runes. It was said that he who wielded the sword would never receive a fatal wound while it was in his hand. In those days, it had a good name. Elves called it Evil Slayer, in the common tongue, though others called it Excalibur. It was created for a man to wield, a left-handed man. It was to be the sword for the Everlasting Hero. Of its tainting, I will let others with more knowledge tell. But I caution you again, he who seeks to wield the Sword risks more than his life, he risks his mortal soul.”

 

Simon shuddered, though part of him was intrigued by the story. He wanted to hear more. His left hand tingled again. His whole arm ached in anticipation. What happened to my sword? Simon no longer noticed the possessive pronoun that had crept into his thoughts.

 

Ceridwen continued, “We are a peaceful people, not taken to fighting except as a last resort. My two companions are the best archers and sword wielders in the Royal Guard. Together, we crossed the Ford of Hope and travelled the Elven Road, before turning north to Elannort. The Elven Road is