Kell's Legend

chest behind you. I have a wound, here on my chest, from fencing with Elias a few days ago; by gods, that man is fast, he will be a Sword-Champion one day! I want you to pierce my heart, through the wound. Then plug it using cotton, don’t let blood spray anywhere. It will look like I died in my sleep; that my heart stopped beating.”
    “I cannot do that to you, father. I cannot…” he tasted the word, “I cannot murder you.”
    “Foolish pup!” he raged. “Have you not listened to a single word I said? Be strong, damn you, or I will get one of the serving maids to do it, if you have not the mettle.”
    Leanoric stood, unable to speak, and took the dagger as instructed. He took a cotton cloth, and placed it over his father’s heart. Then, looking down into the old man’s eyes, he watched Searlan smile, and mouth the words, “Do it,” and he pressed down, his teeth grinding, his jaw locked, his muscles tensed as Searlan spasmed, gritted his teeth, and with a massive force of will did not cry out, did not weep, did not make any other sound than a whispered…“Thank you.”
    Leanoric cleaned the blade, replaced it on the chest, cleaned his father’s wound using a sponge and water, and replaced the old bandage over Elias’s original sword strike. Then, slowly, his hands refusing to work properly, he pulled the covers back over Searlan’s body. Gently, he reached down and closed his father’s eyes, silently thanking him for being a hero, a great king—but most of all, the perfect father.
    Now, sitting atop his charger with the weight of the country across his own bowed shoulders, Leanoric took a deep breath and wiped away a tear at the memory. I hope, he thought, I will have such courage at the time of my own death.
    A horse galloped towards him. It was Elias, Sword-Champion of Falanor and Leanoric’s right-hand man, general, tactician and adviser. Elias saluted, and rode in close. “One of your scouts is approaching, yonder.”
    “From Jalder?”
    “No, he wears the livery of the Autumn Palace.”
    “Alloria?” Leanoric frowned; it was rare Alloria troubled him when out with the army. She would only send a rider if there was…an emergency. Coldness and dread swept through him.
    The horse, heavily lathered, ran into camp and Leanoric, with Elias close behind, spurred his mount towards the rider. Soldiers helped the rider dismount, and as the person practically fell from the saddle it was with shock they realised it was a woman, in a tattered, torn, bloodstained dress. She wore the livery colours of the Autumn Palace; but beneath that, she wore defeat and desolation.
    “Gods, it’s Mary, Alloria’s maid!” She looked up, and dirt and despair were ingrained in her skin, and in her eyes. She saluted the king, and dropped to one knee, head bowed, weeping, although no tears flowed. The horror of past hours had bled her dry.
    “King,” she said, words burbling, body shaking, “I bring bad news.”
    Leanoric leapt from his horse, and turned to the nearest soldier. “Man, go and get a physician! And you man,” he pointed to another, “bring her water.” He rushed forward, caught Mary as she went to topple, and found himself cradling the pretty young woman, her face filthy, blood in her eyelashes.
    “Who did this to you?”
    “The soldiers came,” she sobbed, “oh, sire, it was terrible, and Alloria…”
    The soldier returned with water, and Leanoric forced down his panic, despite the look in Mary’s eyes which made him falter, made a splinter of ice drive straight through his heart. In a strangled voice, he said, “Go on, Mary, what of Alloria?”
    “Great king, there has been…an attack. On the Autumn Palace.”
    “By the gods,” growled Elias.
    “What of Alloria?” repeated Leanoric, voice quiet, a strange calm fluttering over his heart, his soul. He knew it could not be good. He knew, intrinsically, that his life was about to change for ever.
    “She has been taken,” said Mary, averting her eyes, staring at the ground.
    “By whom?”
    “He had white, pale skin. Long white hair. Bright blue eyes that mocked us. He said he was part of the Army of Iron. He said his men had taken the garrison at Jalder…And…”
    “Go on, woman!” Leanoric’s eyes were burning with fury.
    “He has taken Alloria with him.”
    “What was his name?” said Leanoric, voice emotionless.
    “Graal. General Graal.”
    Leanoric turned to Elias, but the man shook his head. He returned to the