Monster War by Dave Duncan

Author:Dave Duncan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2014-04-17T01:53:34+00:00

The Prior’s office in the residence had once been the Baron’s office. Here, too, ancient clutter had been replaced by new. The brothers sat on opposite sides of a table heaped high with papers, while Badger told the story of how he came to be there, back home at Smealey Hole. Owen did not offer food and drink, as one should to a guest who has traveled far. He just sat, still as a corpse, staring at his brother as if watching the words emerge from his lips.

He will send me back! Badger had sworn an oath. He wondered if he would hold Owen to his word, were their positions reversed. They were very much alike, so alike that he had always assumed they shared the same mother. He did not know that and never could. Although the Baron had collected several luscious beauties during his life and flaunted each in turn as his wife, there had in fact been only one true Baroness. Anwen had been an extraordinary woman, tough as iron and ugly as a plowman’s boot. Rumor, those terrible stories that sprouted like weeds around the House of Smealey, insisted that she had disposed of her rivals, one after another, by way of the river. She had certainly reared all of Modred’s sons, but how many had been hers she had somehow kept a secret, even from them. Perhaps none, because none had looked in the least like her. They had all been handsome: Ceri, Aneirin, Edryd, Kendrick, Lloyd, and Owen. Then Bevan, nine years later. Owen and Bevan, the last two born, the last two still living, two too much alike.

Outside the tiny window, the light was fading fast. Only when Badger ended his story did Owen speak.

“So you have delivered your warning. What do you do now?”

With dry mouth, Badger said, “Whatever you wish. I can catch the morning ferry and ride to Grandon. If asked to explain the delay, I can claim my horse went lame. But the Old Blades will be here within two days, I promise you. Did you buy off the Sheriff of Waterby, or just frighten him away?”

Owen sneered contempt. “None of my doing. The cold shadow of death has shriveled his manhood.” He clasped his thick hands, as he did when he was thinking. “Where do you stand in Ironhall?”

“I am Prime.” There was the agony.

“Already?”

Four years ago he had sworn his oath. He would claim to be only fifteen, he had said. Get him enrolled, he had promised Owen, and he would work his heart out every day for the next five years. He would be one of the best. The best went into the Guard, bound by the King himself. Bevan Smealey had been no stranger to a sword, even then, although what Owen had been teaching him was Isilondian technique, quite different from Ironhall style; in some ways it had been a hindrance. But he had done well and won praise. Ironically, his success had hardly mattered.

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