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 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 shivering form of Mary, and she glanced up at him, pain in her face, in her eyes, then looked away.
“There is more?” said Leanoric, softly.
“Yes. But for you alone. Can we go to your tent?”
Leanoric stood, picking up Mary in his arms and bearing her swiftly through the camp. Fires burned, and he could smell soup, and stew. Men were laughing, bantering, and leapt to their feet saluting at his rapid approach. He ignored them all.
Elias pulled back the tent flaps, and Leanoric laid Mary on a low bed of furs and silk. She coughed, and Elias
