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

Its warmth soaked his clothes, then the pain set upon him in earnest, and he fell. He found the floor with
a jolt, twisting awkwardly to avoid jarring the dagger. The soot-black ceiling spun once and seemed to
swoop down toward him, blotting out the world. He didn’t care. Despite all the beatings, humiliations, the
thousand daily censures, he’d not foreseen this, not really.
He dares. God in heaven, he dares. He would kill his own son!
 Pressing his hands hard against the wound, Richard managed to slow the bleeding. It was bad. On the
battlefield he’d seen men die in but a few swift moments from such piercings, their life gushing out to be
soaked up by the cold earth. He’d felt such a death once in a vision Sabra had given him. A hard lesson it
was and frightening in its reality of pain.
But the agony of his father’s act transcended that of the knife in his flesh, and for a time all he could do
was lie unmoving as this last betrayal tore him to the soul.
He dimly saw Montague tower over him, wheezing and holding his injured hand . . . but grinning. He was
actually grinning down at his dying son.
Sabra, did you see this, too? Why did you not warn me?
Unless a warning was not needed. He was changed. Stronger. The natural way of things held no sway
over him, now.
Nor did his father, it seemed.
So that was it.
I’ll not grant you this wish, old man.
Richard’s fingers gingerly grasped the hilt of the dagger. He hissed at the touch, but held fast. There was
no way to prepare himself; hesitation would make it worse, so he simply carried through and pulled as fast
as he could.
The shock of it dragged a cry from him even as he dragged the blade clear. More blood flowed, but for
naught but an instant before the cut sealed itself up. The burn flared and blazed, then gradually diminished.
After a few moments it ceased altogether, and he breathed normally again, marveling at the miraculous
healing he knew must be taking place. Sabra had told him such things would be quick. Not pleasant, but
quick.
He waited it out, staring up at Montague, who had not budged. Indeed, he was taking vast amusement
from Richard’s seeming futile efforts to save himself.
He dares to laugh.
Richard’s reaction surged up from his deepest being: a rage powered by strength such as he’d never
known before, a rage he’d never allowed himself to express. Rage at the lifetime of mistreatment and of
blame for something not his fault. He rolled and got his hands under him and pushed the floor away, found
his feet, and stood.
The blunt astonishment for this was plain on Montague, his surprise so consuming that he did not move
even as Richard closed on him. Richard wrenched him around and slammed him upon the great table,
bending him backwards with both hands fastened around his throat.
He knew his eyes were red and his teeth were out, but Richard cared not. All that mattered was the fact
that his trembling hands could free him from all the tyranny by snapping Montague’s neck as easily as a dry
summer twig. He wanted to; he had the power and the will to do so.
Montague gagged and clawed, his heels drumming against the flags. He was helpless, probably for the
first time in his life. Panic limned his eyes, and his tongue bulged as he fought to draw air.
Richard squeezed all the more. How little effort it would take to finish things. But within him the beast
hungered. He had a better use for the old man . . .
He clawed at the duke’s tunic, ripping the stained wool away to bare his throat. The old man cried out as
Richard bit down through the thick folds of skin to reach the nectar within.
Your blood is already in me, Father, but you will render more.
Montague did not struggle, perhaps too far gone from being choked.
Richard drank deeply, replacing that which had been taken, relishing the bitter taste of the man’s horror.
You wanted a death, dear Father, then I shall deliver it to you.