"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

I will be the strong one, not he. But it was so hard. So many, many years of blame to carry, to struggle
against. It had ever and always been the one fight he could not win.
Then clear within his mind he heard Sabra’s voice, full of love and comfort. Ah, the poor man. He
grieves for her still. He loved her so.
And suddenly Richard’s hot rage cooled. He felt a stillness take hold of his pounding heart, gently
slowing it. Holding his breath, he listened for her to speak again, but no more came. What had been said
was all; it would have to be enough. Was, indeed, enough. He was in control of himself again and very,
very calm.
He’d always believed the old man’s anger over his wife’s death had been about being deprived of one of
his prized possessions. It never occurred to Richard that his father could have loved a woman, might still
love her. If he felt about her as I feel about Sabra . . . He shook his head at the idea, finding it a difficult
thing to take in, then turned and looked at Montague, trying to see him afresh.
But nothing about him seemed different. The duke stood hunched forward, a hand on the table to hold
himself steady, his bloated face flushed and mouth set. “Well, boy?” he demanded, once more insisting on
an answer to the impossible.
He is the same; it is I who am changed.
“Well?”
Richard shook his head as comprehension seeped into him. “I thought you the greatest in all the land.
You were a noble warrior, strong and valiant—and you were my father. I’d have done anything to show
my love for you. I tried everything I could think of to prove it, yet nothing worked. Whatever I did was
never enough.”
The old man snarled as he poured more ale, yet his disdain meant nothing to Richard. Not anymore.
“I have ever been loyal. I fought and bled and killed for you. I have been a fine and faithful son. That
you could never see this makes your loss of me all the greater.”
The duke peered at him more keenly now. This was verging on criticism. This was verging on revolt.
“I have seen my father change over the years. I have seen his nobility vanish, his strength turn to cruelty,
his valor become bitter self-interest.”
The tankard crashed to the floor, spraying ale.
“I’ve watched him degenerate into the drunken old man who totters before me now. You are pathetic,
and the worst of it is that you know it not.”
The duke’s face went purple. His whole body quivered, and he worked his mouth until white spittle
flecked his lips.
He looks like to die, and in truth, I care not.
Montague gave a half-choked bellow and lurched blindly forward, fists swinging. Richard put his arms up
to ward them off, but one blow landed full in his face, bloodying his nose. A second followed, but with a
speed born of his changing, a speed impossible for a mortal man, Richard caught the massive fist in midair,
stopping it dead. He pulled the old man close and, staring eye-to-eye with him, tightened his grip, and began
to squeeze . . . hard. He could clearly hear the sound of muscles tearing and bones snapping. The old man’s
face paled in an instant to a sickly gray, and a grunt of pain escaped him. He tried to pull free. Richard held
on. For one of eternity’s long, silent seconds the two stayed exactly as they were, father and son striving
for control.
“Yield, Montague,” he whispered.
“To . . . hell . . . with you.” Montague’s gray flesh faded to white; his knees began to crumble. Breath
hissing, he struggled to stay afoot, pressing to throw off Richard’s balance. Richard held firm, until he felt a
sudden shifting between them. Montague’s eyes gleamed with unholy delight as his free arm made a short,
forceful movement.
Richard thought he’d only been struck somewhat more bruis-ingly than before until the burning started.
He looked down and saw the duke had drawn his dagger and put it to use. It was buried to the hilt in
Richard’s leg, just below its join to his body. The blade had cut deep, severing the flow from his heart.
Blood pumped from him like a river.