Kell's Legend

heroes. Dagon had been here before, on many occasions, usually on business for King Leanoric. Now, there was a more sombre, and chilling, atmosphere.
    Graal reached a long, lacquered desk and turned, suddenly, a swift movement. His long white hair drifted around his face for a moment, bright blue eyes fixing on Dagon who swallowed, seeing the smile on Graal’s face, knowing that Graal had read his thoughts, had presented his broad back as a test, a free shot, a target; and Dagon also knew this man was a mighty warrior. If he’d dared to attack, to try and save his people…well, he would now be dead.
    “A brandy?”
    “No, I shouldn’t,” came Dagon’s rich voice. He was a born orator, but here, in this company, he felt like a child. All his richly rehearsed speeches crumbled in the air like the stench of warm cabbage.
    “I appreciate the, ah, ice-smoke is not to everybody’s liking. It chills the bones. Go on, Dagon, you have made a long journey to visit, a long journey to…” he laughed softly, “save your life. A little brandy cannot hurt. It is distilled from peaches from the King Leanoric’s own orchards, I believe.”
    Dagon took a glass, and his eyes reflected in Leanoric’s crest carved skilfully into the faceted crystal surface. He drank deep, and observed Graal watching his trembling fingers, his nervous tongue, and hefinished the brandy, felt warmth flood him, felt alcohol tingle his brain giving him just a little courage.
    “So you will tell me everything?” said Graal, sipping at his own drink. Dagon saw the man’s fingers were long, tapered, even the finger-nails white. His gaze moved up to blue eyes fixed on him. Strange, that they were blue, thought Dagon. He watched. Graal did not blink.
    “Yes,” croaked Dagon, eventually, feeling weak at the knees, full in the bladder, frightened to his very core.
    “Numbers of infantry, cavalry, archers, pikemen? Where the divisions are stationed? The names of their division generals? Brigadier generals? Numbers of horses, supply chains, military routes through Falanor, everything?”
    “Yes.”
    “And of course,” said Graal, moving to Dagon, stooping a little to peer closer into the official’s eyes, “Leanoric. They say he is a great battle king. That he cannot be beaten on the field. He has shown, endlessly, that he has a brilliant mind, a tactician without compare. He is strong, handsome, commands respect and honour from his soldiers. Is all this correct?”
    “It is…my lord.”
    “I am a general, not a lord,” snapped Graal, crushing his crystal glass. It shattered, long jagged shards slicing Graal’s hand, thick brandy flowing over the wounds and dripping, mixed with normal red blood into the carpet. Graal did not flinch, did not even look at the wound, but retained his connection with Dagon.
    “Yes, general,” whispered Dagon.
    “There is one more thing.”
    “General?” Dagon’s voice was little more than a whisper.
    “Alloria. Leanoric’s queen. The mother of his two boys. She is his backbone, is she not? His love, his life, his strength. I want to know where she is, where she travels in the winter, who her maids of honour are, and which hand she uses to wipe her arse.”
    “Alloria? But…I agreed to instruct you in armies, military strategy, and to speak of Leanoric…”
    Graal’s hand snapped out, taking Dagon by the throat. Shards of crystal, embedded in Graal’s flesh, pierced Dagon’s skin and he squealed, legs kicking as Graal lifted him off the ground. “You will tell me everything. Leanoric is a worthy adversary; but if I remove his reason for life, diverge his thoughts by taking his queen then I have a powerful bartering tool, I have, shall we say, a strategy our tactician will appreciate. I cannot afford to lose time on this…” he smiled, almost sardonically, “invasion. You understand, Trelltongue?”
    “Ye-es,” he managed, throat weeping blood.
    Graal dropped Dagon to the carpet, turned, and languorously poured himself another brandy. His head came up as something drifted through the doorway, and Dagon’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the Harvester approach. He had seen them at work, seen them drain the corpses of women, and children. These creatures filled him with a terror straight from a deep primeval pit; a terror so awesome he could barely vocalise.
    “Hestalt. There is a problem?”
    The Harvester nodded, black eyes turning on Dagon and burning through the king’s