Kell's Legend

from its tiny black eyes and open mouth, from its fingers and very core and it slammed Elias, dropping him in a moment, sword frozen to the skin of his fingers, body convulsing and juddering, spastic fits wracking him with a violence he could not have believed possible…
    “Let’s take away your pretty toy,” said the Harvester, stepping close, and Elias saw the skin stripped from his fingers leaving several with nothing more than bone and a few strips of dangling, pink flesh. And as Elias dropped into a descent of terror and disbelief, and pain and raw burning agony, he could still hear the Harvester talking as it worked, and remembered those five bony fingers hovering over his heart…“Come to me now, boy, come to the Harvester, we’ll look after you, we’ll take you to the Watchmaker and you’ll have such a pretty time, you’ll have the time of your life…”
    Elias opened his eyes. It was dark, and cold, and wooden walls surrounded him. For a terrible long moment he thought he was in a coffin, buried alive beneath fetid soil with worms struggling to ease through cracks and eat his eyes as he still breathed…a scream welled in his throat, bubbling through phlegm as his hands slapped out, thudding against wood…
    “Where am I?” he croaked, realising he was terribly dehydrated, blinking, coughing, and he sat up and realised he wasn’t in a box, but a cart, and it bumped over rough ground and he stared down at his hand where two fingers were nothing more than torn and shattered bone, and he screamed, even though there was no pain, he screamed and his screams echoed out through the darkness…
    “Quiet!” snapped a soldier, his sword prodding Elias in the chest and forcing him back to his rump in the cart.
    Elias said nothing, but cradled his wounded hand and gazed around through veils of red sweet nausea. Darkness and mist filled his vision, and through the vapour like ghosts walked soldiers, ten, a hundred, a thousand, and each one had a pale face and crimson eyes and white hair; their armour was black, and Elias leant forward and vomited into his own lap, and stared for a long time at strings of saliva and puke as he rewound his brain and played through the meeting with…the Harvester? So. He had found the army. But how long had he been unconscious? How far from Leanoric was he now? He could have travelled a hundred miles, or a thousand. No, he thought to himself,staring again at his flesh-stripped fingers. Realisation struck him worse than any axe blow to the back of the head.
    His hand was crippled; a deformed relic.
    He could no longer hold a sword.
    Tears ran down his face then, and all dignity and pride fled him. He knew, deep down, that all men feared something more than all else; each man had a breaking point, whether it be cancer, loss of sight, the death of children or parents. But for Elias, Sword-Champion of Falanor, it was a loss of his right to swordsmanship.
    Random images flickered through his mind, and he realised he was delirious.
    He was a boy again, practising with a wooden blade…
    He was a man, teaching his own children the art of the sword…
    He was standing, shivering, behind the curtains as Leanoric killed his father, King Searlan…
    Time flowed like black honey; with no meaning. The cart stopped and he was given bread and water, but did nothing more than vomit when it hit his stomach. A harsh voice snapped, “Leave him, if he dies, he dies.”
    “No. Graal will have the entire fucking army flogged!”
    “Damn that Harvester; if he’d done his job a’right, we wouldn’t be having these problems.” There came a curse in another, guttural, almost mechanical language, and harsh hands with smooth skin forced more water down his throat. This, Elias managed to retain,and after another few miles bouncing in the cart, which he now realised was drawn by two pale, milk-skinned geldings, they halted and Elias was dragged from the platform, his hands bound tight behind his back with thin gold wire which bit his skin and made him cry out…it felt like he was being eaten by insects. Glancing back, he watched the wire moving constantly, with tiny blades, like tiny teeth, all made of copper and brass and continually sawing.
    Elias was forced through the camp. They were on high moorland. Trees formed a solid black wall to the north. Above, the stars were obscured by bunching snow-clouds. Mist swirled around his boots. His hand throbbed, fingers stinging him like nothing on