By Michael P. Spradlin
The Western Territories, 1880. For 4 years Civil conflict veteran and previous U.S. Cavalry Captai Jonas P. Hollister has been rotting in a jail mobilephone at fortress Leavenworth, Kansas. His crime: mendacity in regards to the lack of 11 infantrymen less than his command . . . who he claims have been slaughtered by way of a ban of nonhuman, blood-drinking demons
But now a well-known customer, the detective Allan Pinkerton, has arrived with an order for Hollister's unencumber. The brutal homicide of a bunch of Colorado miners in a way frighteningly just like the deaths of Hollister's males has leant new credence to his wild story. And without warning Jonas Hollister unearths himself on a quest either risky and dark--joining forces with Pinkerton, the gunsmith Oliver Winchester, an ex-fellow prisoner, a lady of poser, and a foreigner named Abraham Van Helsing, who is aware many stuff concerning the monsters of the night--and using hell for leather-based towards an epic disagreement . . . with the undead
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Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation.
Despite himself, he shivered. ” Royce asked. “Some,” Will muttered. ” The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frost-fallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce’s destrier moved restlessly. ” Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak. “It was the cold,” Gared said with iron certainty. “I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold.
Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. ” Bran echoed. The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. ” Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue. “You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them.