The Stone Lion charged, the ground thundering, and Kell stood his ground, axe raised, eyes narrowed, mouth a grim, sour, dry line and it smashed towards him, and at the last moment he rolled, felt the Stone Lion's huge bulk slam past and the axe sliced one leg, a butterfly blade exiting with chunks of stone and wood splinters. Kell's shoulder hit the earth, he rammed the wall of the green lane, was spun around by the incredible force, and with a grunt he gained his feet, watched the Stone Lion stumble, skid, turn, and lower its head towards him. He hefted Ilanna, moving to the centre of the trail, studying the way the Stone Lion carried itself; he'd injured it, damaged it in some way, but it had not screamed. There was no blood. Now, in silence, it advanced, more slowly, and its huge long arms came thumping towards Kell and he swayed back, fast, a stone-like fist whirring a hand's-breadth from his face and his axe slammed the arm but glanced off, nearly wrenching Kell's arms from sockets. He skipped back avoiding another blow, then the Stone Lion surged forward and Kell was backing away, his axe ringing from arms and fists as he deflected blow after blow, his own arms jarring with every strike of the axe-blade, but the Stone Lion was tough, its skin like stone and Kell realised its legs were its weakness; he ducked a whirling appendage, then rolled under its reach towards the thick trunk-like legs. Ilanna sang in his scarred hands as he cut chunks from the Stone Lion's twisted timber shins, embedded one butterfly blade in a thigh with a clunk and wrested it free as the Stone Lion caught him in the chest with a blow, accelerating him down the green lane to tumble, and lie on his chest, panting, before scrambling to his feet and lifting his axe with a grimace.

The Stone Lion was gazing down at itself, at its damaged legs. It looked up, glared at him, and let out a high-pitched roar that made Kell shudder. But he stood his ground, and glimpsed a thick yellow liquid oozing from the cuts and slices he'd inflicted. The Stone Lion took a step forward, then went down on one knee. It stood again, grasping the lane to heave itself up.

Kell decided this was the right moment.

He turned and ran, stampeding through leaves and dead pine, listening for pursuit from the massive creature of legend. As he reached a thick section of woodland he risked a glance back, but the Stone Lion still stood its ground, glaring at him, its chest...heaving? Heaving, or laughing. Kell was unsure which. Then he blinked, and realised the wounds he had so skilfully inflicted were healing, the thick yellow liquid had hardened, formed a shell over the cuts like hardening sap.

Kell fell into the woodland; only then did he hear the pursuit, the thump thump thump of a heavy pendulous charge, and the ground was shaking beneath him and fear filled him up like a jug. He realised he could not kill it...unless he gave control to Ilanna. He scowled. That would only happen over his dead body.

Run! If he could reach the horses, he could outrun the Stone Lion. Perhaps.

He charged on, branches slamming his face and arms, the Stone Lion in pursuit. He reached the crossroads where they'd tethered the horses, and for a second was flooded with relief, for Saark and the young women were nowhere to be seen; they had fled, were gone, were safe. His sacrifice had bought them time. Only, now...he frowned. All the horses were gone. Which meant he was...on foot.

"Saark, you dandy bastard!"

A roar echoed through the trees behind, and Kell cast about; Saark had headed south, as they'd discussed, to reach King Leanoric, warn him of events in Jalder. Kell sprinted down the trail but the recent fighting, lack of sleep, and the curse of age and inactivity hit him like a cobble. He faltered within a hundred yards, was streaming with sweat after two. The Stone Lion still pursued. It ceased its bestial roar, but Kell could hear the thump of heavy steps...how could he not? He grimaced.

"Horse-dung," he muttered. He was going to die here.

Ahead, through heavy snow, the trees grew thinner and a fantasy entertained Kell; maybe he was by the edge of Stone Lion Woods? Maybe there was a boundary to the Stone Lion's territory, beyond which it could not pursue? Blood-oil magick worked like that, sometimes...

But there was no guarantee.

Kell laboured on, and could hear the Stone Lion growing closer, and closer, a dark shadow behind, a black ghost in the trees. Kell stopped, wheezing, red lights dancing in his brain. He hawked, and spat a lump of phlegm to the woodland floor.

A high roar, bestial, like a choking woman, made him jump and surge forward...as growls up ahead made him skid to a halt, confused. Through the trees, Kell saw the shape of a canker. Something died inside him. He was trapped. By all the gods! Trapped!

"Not good."

His eyes narrowed, as the first canker was joined by two more, all three different shapes and sizes, but each with a wide-open head showing cogs and gears clicking and moving. Kell glanced back. The Stone Lion was there, advancing on him. He could see its legs now, and no wounds were visible...it had completely healed.

Kell sprinted, axe tight in sweat-slippery hands, and the cankers saw him; with spastic jerks of deformed and bloated heads, they let out vicious, triumphant growls and howls and thuds of accelerating, deviated twisted clockwork with bunched muscles run through with lodes of silver-quartz, and with snarls they leapt to the attack...and in a whirling chaos of confusion, with the Stone Lion roaring behind, and the smell of hot canker oil in his nostrils, Kell narrowed his eyes and lifted his axe in the eerie snow-brightened woodland where snow flurries drifted and swirled, and as panic detonated around him he leapt at the cankers and brought the singing, glinting blades of Ilanna around in a savage downward sweep...

NINE

Army North

Leanoric sat his charger on the hill just outside the ruins of Old Valantrium, and thought about his father. To the northeast, he could see the distant gleaming spires of Valantrium, one of Falanor's richest, most awe-inspiring cities, constructed by the finest architects and builders in the land, its streets paved with marble painstakingly hewn from the Black Pike Mines in the south-west of the staggering and awe-inspiring mountain range.

What would your father do? he thought, and despair settled over him like a cloak.

Leanoric turned his charger, gazing west. He could just make out the gleaming cobbles of the Great North Road, which some called his finest creation. A single, wide avenue, it ran for nearly sixty leagues through hills and valleys, through forests and moorland, dissecting the country and linking Falanor's capital city Vor in the south, with the major northern university city of Jalder. The Great North Road was an artery of trade and guaranteed protection, patrolled by Leanoric's soldiers. It had been successful in banishing thieves, solitary highwaymen and outlaw brigands, sending them either further north into the savage inhospitable hell of the Black Pike Mountains, or south, across the seas to worry other lands.

What would your father do?

Leanoric rubbed his stubble, evidence of three days in the saddle, and turned his charger again, scanning for his own scouts due back from Old Skulkra and Corleth.

The rumour, delivered by an old merchant on a half-dead horse, had sent prickles of fear lacerating Leanoric's spine and scalp.

Invasion!

Jalder, invaded!

Leanoric smiled, a bitter careful smile, and placed his Eagle Divisions in his mind; he had twin regiments of eight hundred men each camped on Corlath Moor, three days march from Jalder; he had a further battalion of four hundred men stationed at the Black Pike Mines at the west of the range, maybe a week's march, longer if the coming snows were heavy. Further north, he had a brigade of sixteen hundred infantry near Old Skulkra, and close to them a division of five thousand led by the wily old Division General, Terrakon. And another brigade to the east of Valantrium Moor, on manoeuvres.

Within two weeks he could muster another four brigades from the south of Vor, and descend on Jalder with nearly twenty thousand men-the entire Army of Falanor. Twenty thousand heavily armed, battle-trained soldiers, infantry, cavalry, pikemen. But...but what if this was nothing more than the ravings of some drunken, insane old merchant? Some bastard high on blue karissia, frothing at mouth and veins, and with his speculative fear putting into action the slow mechanical wheels of an entire army's mobilisation?

It had not escaped Leanoric that winter was coming, and thousands of soldiers were looking to return to their homesteads. Leanoric had already delayed leave by three days; every hour, he felt their frustration growing, accelerating. If he didn't release his northern armies soon, they could become trapped by snow as the Great North Road became more and more impassable. Then, Leanoric risked insubordination, desertion, and worse.

Leanoric ground his teeth, sighed, and tried to relax.

If only his scouts would bring news!

It was a bad joke, nothing more, he told himself. The garrison at Jalder was more than able to cope with raiding brigands from the Black Pike Mountains; with outlaws, rogue Blacklippers and the occasional band of forest thugs.

Leanoric considered the old merchant, who even now was being tended by Leanoric's physicians in his own royal tent. The man could no longer speak, his skin burned and peeling as if half cooked over a 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, curled golden 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 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 closed the tent flaps, offering the woman another mug of water which she thankfully accepted.

"Can we speak in private?" said Mary.

Leanoric nodded, their eyes met, and Elias departed. Alone now, with shadows lengthening outside, Mary reached up to Leanoric, put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes haunted in a curious reversal, from subject to monarch, from young to old, from naive to wise.

"Did they hurt her?" snapped Leanoric. "Tell me! What did they do to her?"

Mary opened her mouth, and some tiny intuition made her close it again. What if, she wondered, Graal's abuse of the queen made her a less than valuable commodity? Maybe, and as she looked into Leanoric's eyes she felt a terrible guilt at her thoughts, but maybe if she told him the truth, told the king of the violent rape by General Graal, maybe he would not want her back at all. After all, it was only a few short years since Alloria's betrayal...

"He...bit her," said Mary, finally.

Leanoric stared at her, without understanding. "What do you mean? He bit bit her?" her?"

"I know it sounds...strange. Metal teeth came out from his mouth, long metal teeth, and he bit Alloria in the throat and drank her blood." Mary closed her mouth, confused now, aware she sounded like a mad woman. She risked a glance at Leanoric. "Graal said he had taken Jalder, he had taken Jangir, and would march on the capital, on Vor. He said if you stood in his way, he would kill Alloria."