The Hero's Tomb by Conrad Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

eyes.
    The horse had turned into a man. And there could only be one explanation for that.
    A shapeshifter.
    ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ said the horse-man to his companion. ‘The mongrel boy.’
    ‘Yes. It’s him.’
    Shapeshifters were as rare as cockatrice teeth. In fact, Joseph had only ever met one other shapeshifter before, and that was …
    ‘You’ve done well,’ said the horse’s companion. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.’
    This time, Joseph recognized the voice. The voice of a shapeshifter he knew well …
    No, it can’t be. Please, no. His hand went to the wooden spoon, but he knew now there was no point trying to use it. He should never have got on the horse. He should have stayed and taken his chances with the Grey Brothers.
    He tried to stand but was pushed down again. He looked up into the face of the man who’d just spoken, and he knew it was all over. I’ll never learn the truth about my father. I’m going to die, here in this room.
    ‘Hello, mongrel.’ The man was young and slim and dressed in a smart velvet jacket. He had neat ginger hair, and the glittering yellow eyes of a cat. ‘Last time we met you humiliated me, locked me in a cage and shipped me across the ocean.’ The man licked his lips, like a kitten with a bowl of cream. ‘Rather cruel of you, I must say. But don’t worry. I’m sure I can think of something worse to do in return.’

INTERLUDE
    The wyvern comes from the sky, wings beating the air in slow, powerful strokes. At a distance it could be a bird – an eagle or a hawk. But as it flies closer its distinctive lizard’s tail can be seen, streaming behind it. Then the shimmering green of its scales and the translucent red of its bat-like wings. It swoops down in a rush of air, landing on the Duke’s hunting glove with a soft thud.
    It is barely two years old, this one, and still a long way from fully grown. He offers it a lump of raw meat which it snatches gratefully. Small, but deadly. It has already felled two hinds this morning.
    ‘Nothing this time, eh?’ says the Earl of Brindenheim.He is riding a huge, heavy carthorse, all the better to support the man’s vast weight. As podgy as he is, he still sits ramrod straight, the breeze gently ruffling his whiskers and the long coloured plumes that sprout from his tricorne hat. He is still dressed in white, spattered with mud now from the morning’s hunting.
    The other lords are mounted further away, prattling about the previous night’s debauchery. Brindenheim’s son, Lucky Leo, cannot hold his wine, and has already stopped twice to be sick in the bushes. Even Tallis, famous for once drinking an entire keg of blackwine in one go, looks a little pale and sweaty.
    Brindenheim’s wyvern rises up above the wood, flapping hard, something caught in its grasp.
    ‘Ah ha!’ chortles the Earl. ‘What have we here?’
    The wyvern swoops down beyond the fringe of trees, dropping its cargo on the grass. Huntsmen rush forward armed with knives, to finish off the kicking deer.
    ‘Two apiece,’ says Brindenheim, his eyes flashing.
    ‘Two apiece.’
    Brindenheim flicks his reins, coaxing his massive carthorse over. Leans in, checking that no one is listening. Of course, the others are too busy talking of cards and serving girls to pay attention.
    ‘Did you have to bring that … creature?’
    There, among the huntsmen, Morgan is lumberingforward, still limping a little from when a citizen threw a stone at him last week. Space clears around him wherever he goes, and the lords cast him nervous glances. Some have never seen an ogre before.
    ‘You are referring to Morgan, I take it. Are you frightened of him?’
    Brindenheim’s bushy eyebrows knit together in displeasure. ‘Don’t be absurd.’
    ‘The others are. As they should be.’
    The Earl’s wyvern returns, landing softly on his hunting glove and folding its wings, meek and obedient.
    ‘On the contrary. The last army of