Kell's Legend

fire. Eyes wide, the man—they still had not established a name—had ridden in on a horse which promptly collapsed and died, ridden to death, iron-shoes down to the hoof, foam ripe on mouth and nostrils. The tortured merchant had babbled, incoherently at first, then delivered his news in fits and starts between wails for mercy and cries for the king to spare his life. It had been…Leanoric searched for a word…he sighed, and ran a hand through his short, curledgolden hair. It had been distressing, he thought.
    So. What would his father have done?
    Leanoric considered the former king, dead now the last fifteen years. After a lifetime as Battle King, a warrior without peer, huge and fast and fearless, a man to walk the mountains with, a man with whom to hunt lions, Searlan, King of Falanor, at the age of fifty six had been thrown from his horse and broke his neck and lower spine. He’d hung on grimly for three days as specialist physicians and the skilled University Surgeon, Malen-sa, tended him; but eventually the life-light, the will to live, had faded from his eyes as his paralysed limbs lay limp, unmoving, and understanding sank as if through a sponge to penetrate his brain. He would never walk again, never ride a horse, never hunt, dance, make love, fight. In those last few days, as realisation dawned, Searlan had lost the will to live; and had died. The physicians said, eventually, after much consultation, that death had occurred through internal bleeding. Leanoric knew this to be untrue; it had been his own blade that pierced his father’s heart, at Searlan’s request, one stormy night as Leanoric sat by the bedside holding back tears.
    “Son, I will never walk again.”
    “You will, father,” said Leanoric, taking the old man’s hands.
    “No. I understand my fate. I understand the reality of the situation; I have seen these injuries on the battlefield so many, many times. Now my turn has come.” He smiled, but the smile shifted to a wince, then a gritting of teeth as he fought the pain.
    “Can you still not feel your toes?”
    “I can feel my heart beating, and move my lips, but my fingers, my toes and my cock all remain out of my control.” He laughed again, although he struggled to perform even that simple function. “I am lucky I can still talk to you, my son. Lucky indeed.”
    Leanoric squeezed his fingers, although there was no movement there, no return pressure.
    “I love you, father.”
    Searlan smiled. “You’ve been a good boy, Leanoric. You’ve made me proud, every single day of my life. From the moment the midwife brought you squealing from your mother’s cut womb, covered in blood and mucus, your tiny face scrunched up in a ball and your piss carving an arc across the room—to this moment, here and now, there has been nothing but joy.”
    “There will be more joy,” said Leanoric. Tears filled his eyes. His throat hurt with unspent sorrow.
    “No. My time in this world is done.”
    “Let me fetch mother.”
    “No!” The word was like a stinging slap, and stopped Leanoric as he rose from the stool. “No.” More gentle, this time. “I cannot say my farewell to her; it would break my heart, and hers too. It must be this way. It must be death in sleep.”
    Leanoric stared hard into his father’s eyes.
    “I cannot.”
    “You will.”
    “I cannot, father.”
    “You will, boy. Because I love you, and you love me, and you know this is the thing that must be done. I would ruffle your hair, if I could; even that simple pleasure is denied me.”
    “I cannot!” Now, he allowed tears to roll down his cheeks. Leanoric, rarely bested in battle, the son of the great Battle King who had led a charge against the Western Gradillians, suffering a short-sword blow to the head which cracked his skull allowing shards to poke free—and never uttered a whimper. Now, he allowed his fear and anguish to roll down cheeks from eyes far too unused to crying.
    “Let it out, son,” said Searlan, kindly. “Never be afraid to cry. I know I used to tell you the opposite,” he coughed a laugh, “but I was making you strong, preparing your for kingship. You understand, boy, what I ask of you? It is not just for me; it is for all of you, and for Falanor. The land needs a strong king, a leader of men. Not a dribbling old fool in a chair, unable to wipe his arse, unable to ride into battle.”
    Leanoric looked into his father’s eyes. He could find no words.
    “Take the thin dagger, from the