"Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Final Challenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

The Final Challenge
by Lawrence Watt-Evans
This story copyright 1997 by Lawrence Watt-Evans.This copy was created for Jean Hardy's personal
use.All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *


The royal funerary rites were long since finished and the crowd along the high street was thinning
rapidly, but the last of the auxiliary troops were still straggling past when the old soldier ducked into the
tavern. He grabbed himself a tankard of ale from a passing tray, turned to face the crowded room, and
hoisted it in salute.
"To the old king!" he cried. "We won't see a man like him again!"
Most of the tavern's patrons smiled and murmured agreement, lifting their own drinks in reply.
Not everyone did, though. "You old fool," someone called back, "the old king's dead, and now that
he's properly buried, let's drink to his son, the new king!"
The soldier hesitated, startled; for an instant his teeth bared in an angry grimace, but then he turned it
into a rather stiff smile. "Fair enough," he answered, "I'll drink the new king's health, for he's a good man,
too-- but I'll tell you, good as he is, he's not his father's equal." He swigged ale.
"And how is it you're so certain of that, then?" the other man called belligerently.
The soldier peered over his mug for the source of the voice, and spotted it-- a strapping young man of
twenty or so, wearing the livery of the crown prince's personal guard, a uniform that no longer had quite
the meaning it had had three days before. He was sitting with three other young men, all three in the attire
of other divisions of the royal service.
That explained the fellow's hostility. The soldier knew that this was a hard time for the prince's men, as
they sought to prove themselves-- the relative roles of the Prince's Guard and the King's Chosen
Regiment were not yet settled. Such uncertainty could make anyone surly; there was no point in arguing
with the fellow about it.
"Why, I've served with them both, boy," the soldier called back to the guardsman, "and I'll be glad to
tell you all about it, if you'd like. I meant no disrespect to you, or to Prince... that is, King Philip."
"I don't need to hear any tall tales, old man," the guard answered.
"If by that you mean the sort of lies men usually swap in taverns," the soldier said, approaching the
guard's table, "why, I don't mean to tell any-- just a few memories about young King Philip, long may he
reign, and old King Geoffrey, bless his memory, and every word the truth."
The guardsman hesitated; he glanced around at his companions, judging their reactions, then shrugged.
"Talk if you want, old man," he said, "But I don't promise to listen."
"I'd never expected such a promise," the soldier said, sinking into an empty chair across from the
guardsman and setting his tankard on the table. He gazed around, as if thinking, and asked, "Ah, where
to begin?"
"You say King Philip's no match for his father," the guardsman said challengingly. "I say that's crap. His
Majesty's a warrior and a match for any man."
"Oh, he knows how to wield a sword, I'll give you that," the older man agreed, "but a warrior? How's
anyone to say, when he's never gone to war?"
The guard's eyes narrowed. "I've seen His Majesty fight, and to my eyes a finer swordsman never
lived; certainly no bent old fossil like King Geoffrey could match him!"
"You've seen him fence," the soldier corrected. "And in all likelihood you've seen him wrestle and box
and ride and shoot and throw the javelin. But you've never seen him fighting for his life, because he's
never had to-- he was born a prince, where his sire was a minor baron's second son who fought his way