"Bard's Tale 03 - Prison of Souls - Mercedes Lackey & Mark Shepherd 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bard's Tale)

one of those relapses into depression. Probably no one
remembered his existence, outside his own family.
Alaire could almost forget his royal blood out here on
the outskirts of the kingdom.
It's a good thing I'm the eighth son. I know I could
never handle being king. Lucky Derek, he has the
throne and all its responsibilities to look forward to.
By now he must feel like an actor in a play, with all his
lines and actions written out for him.
Alaire struggled to his feet and answered Nai-
tachal's salute with one of his own.
"We aren't finished yet," the Dark Elf said.
As if I was worried we might not be, Alaire thought,
heeding the challenge nevertheless.
Naitachal struck with a vengeance, taking Alaire by
surprise. What's gotten into him? The boy thought as
he frantically defended himself. The elf was attacking
his left side, just as he had the day before.
He did his best, but it became painfully evident that
either Naitachal had been toying with him earlier, or
else he had been distracted by something and was
now leveling his full concentration on the bout. Within
moments, Alaire was struggling just to keep from
being scored on.
Within a few breaths, it was obvious that he was not
going to manage even that.
"Hit," Naitachal declared; the swordpoint wavered
just above his heart. "You're dead."
Alaire froze, then dropped his swordpoint to the
ground.
They both bowed, formally, as the etiquette of
Swordmaster and pupil demanded. Then both
grinned, and Alaire wiped sweat from his forehead
with his sleeve.
"Let's take a break," Naitachal said, "then back to
work."
"I was about ready for a breather," Alaire admitted,
omitting the real reason he wanted to stop: he wanted
a drink to wash away the dust he'd eaten.
They set their wooden swords on a small rack near
the practice field and went to the well beside the front
door. Dipping a ladle into the bucket of ice-cold water,
Alaire drank deeply, clearing his mouth of the dirt.
Naitachal drank too, though he didn't seem winded
or even truly tired. His folk have a constitution we
humans can only dream of, the bardling thought with
envy, at the same time uttering a brief prayer to the
gods that be that he would never have to fight an elf
for real. The practices are hell enough!
Naitachal's age was as much an enigma now as it