"Boyer, Elizabeth - Thrall And The Dragon's Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Boyer Elizabeth)

The Alfar dived into their positions beside the windows and began fitting arrows into their bows. Hafthorr showed his guests where to conceal themselves and bent a last lowering glance upon Ingvold. "Either you're a very important person, or you've done something dreadfully stupid to get the Myrkriddir after you. Myrkjartan isn't far behind them, usually, and Myrkjartan doesn't waste his time pursuing things of no importance to him."
"MyrkjartanЧbah!" was all Ingvold could say before the Myrkriddir made another rush at the house. Hafthorr shot an arrow into their midst in a glowing, sizzling arc, and its flight was followed by an unearthly shriek. One of the Myrkriddir burst into flame like a torch, its matted hair ablaze and grave clothes flying away in flaming tatters. In a moment the white bones blackened and. the creature disintegrated. Frantically, the other Myrkriddir beat at the gleaming bits of burning rag and hair, plunging their ragged horses in all directions to avoid catching themselves on fire. With a chorus of wails and howls they galloped away, climbing into the sky like a mass of rolling thunderclouds.
"A good shot, Hafthorr," someone said, and the others rumbled in agreement.
"It's not over with yet," Hafthorr said, scowling through the crack between the shutters. "The house-riders didn't go far." He had scarcely spoken when they again heard the pounding of hooves. The Alfar were drawing their bows as a huge gust of wind struck the house with an icy blast that frosted the beards and numbed the fingers of everyone inside. The Myrkriddir rode onto the porch, and the door shuddered under heavy blows. After an instant to recover, the Alfar began shooting arrows into the porch, igniting three Myrkriddir and their horses. Brak had never heard such unearthly shrieks, and the flames billowed forth clouds of black, stinking smoke that threatened to make him sick. He crawled further under the table where he was hiding, which was fortunate for him. In the next instant a bolt of ice burst through a window, shattering the wood and overturning a barricade of tables and benches, sending the Alfar defenders scuttling for cover. Splinters of ice exploded into the hall, wounding two Alfar.
Brak tumbled into the shelter of a large carved chest, with Ingvold close behind him. Pehr was somewhere in the hall with the fighters, trying to persuade someone to give him a bow and some arrows.
"I feel like such a nithling," Brak muttered, "but I don't know the first thing about fighting. Perhaps I could hit something by accident if I weren't such a coward."
"You come with me," Ingvold said. "We can help the injured more than we can harm the attackers. Don't cut yourself on the ice; it makes a very nasty gash which will not heal without magic."
They slithered toward the two wounded Alfar, stretched out stiff and cold. Brak gingerly touched the wounded flesh and realized it was frozen hard. Ingvold examined the victim quickly and thoroughly. "This one's done for, poor fellow. The ice was too near his heart. Come on, Brak, I need your help." The other Alfar was alive, but his skin was turning cold and blue. Ingvold gouged the ice from his arm with a sharp little knife and poured a few drops from her blue vial into the wound. The man grimaced and growled, but in a few minutes the blue pallor vanished and he was gathering up his bow and arrows to return to the fight without expressing any amazement or curiosity that such a miraculous recovery could be effected. Brak continued to sit and stare at the fellow until Ingvold summoned him impatiently to help another warrior who had just caught a needle of ice in the shoulder. Brak scuttled after her, slipping on the green, slimy residue of a melted ice bolt.
Before long the Myrkriddir again turned and took to the air, after four arrows claimed four Myrkriddir in fiery destruction and a fifth was struck down with a stout staff as they were leaving. The creature dropped on the front steps of the wide porch, a tangled heap of old bones held together with dried bits of leathery skin and covered with rotten clothing and straggling hairЧmuch like a corpse removed from a peat bog.
"Are they gone?" Pehr's voice asked. Someone had finally loaned him a bow and arrows, ordinary ones made of wood and fletched with gray feathers. Although the weapons looked much the same as any Scipling's, in the hands of the Alfar the arrows glowed with light and never missed their mark unless a counterforce repelled them.
In the silence outside, a single horse approached the hall at a nervous walk. "Halloo, Hafthorr," a deep voice called. "Let's talk."
Hafthorr peered through the crack. "Is it you, Myrkjartan? What do you mean by attacking our outpost for no reason? With one of my men dead and others wounded, I'm not much willing to chitchat. Speak your piece and begone, necromancer."
"You know what I'm looking for. Tostig heard me at Vapnaford. Send out the girl and the two Sciplings and we'll never set hoof upon Hafthorrsstead again."
Hafthorr eyed his three guests speculatively. "Did you hear that? He wants the three of you. Whatever have you done to antagonize him so thoroughly?"
Ingvold gathered her ragged cloak around her. "You can send me out if you wish; I'm sure he'll forget Brak and
Pehr if he has me. I'll go willingly, if someone will unbar the door."
"No! Don't let her!" Brak gasped in horror. "It will mean the doom of Snowfell! It won't help at all; she was sick several nights ago and doesn't know what she's saying."
Hafthorr shook his head and scowled. "I've never given up any guest of mine to our enemies yet and I won't start now, but I'd certainly like to knowЧ"
"Hafthorr!" Myrkjartan's voice thundered. "Do you know what you are sheltering under your roof? The girl has a curse which Hjordis placed upon her. The girl is a hag, Hafthorr, and she'll lead your house to grief if you keep her. Surrender her to us who have a claim upon her and be thankful her curse will never visit your house. You may keep the Sciplings if you wish, and their doom will arrive in its own time when Hjordis has swept the Ljosalfar from both realms."
Hafthorr stared at Ingvold. "A hag?" he rasped. "I don't believe it. I can't believe it. You're only a young girl and clever, like my own little daughter. How could you do anything so evil and dangerous? It's not true, is it? Myrkjartan must be lying, isn't he?"
"No, he's telling the truth," Ingvold said. "You'd better send me out, or you'll suffer the next time the moon is full. Myrkjartan won't let me leave here, now he's found me. Unbar the door before the consequences become more serious." The house shivered as a blast exploded high overhead, showering the roof with shards of ice and a spume of foul-smelling mist, worse than the breath of the rankest barrow.
Some of the Alfar were nodding and others were disagreeing. Hafthorr gave his shaggy beard a rough shaking and declared, "Nonsense. Don't be absurd, child. Myrkjartan be blasted and burned, even if you won't tell me who you are and what this is all about."
Ingvold stiffened her thin shoulders. "Very well, I'll tell you. My father was Thjodmar, and I am the only survivor of Gljodmalborg. What Myrkjartan wants from me is this." She touched the chain at her throat. "Thjodmar's last gift to me. He foresaw that I would survive to use it against Hjordis and Myrkjartan. But I have no intention of drawing innocent people into my quarrels with the dark powers. I commission you to take these Sciplings to HrodneyЧ"
"Hafthorr!" came a shout, and another blast shook dust from the roof in a shower. "Have you made up your mind, or will you wait until your house falls down around you? Send out the girl, or the next blast won't be so kind!"
Hafthorr opened a window cautiously, then bellowed, "Yes, I've made up my mind, Myrkjartan, and here is your answer!" He hurled his lance with all his might, adding a spell to guide it on its way. It gleamed like a red sliver of fire and exploded as Myrkjartan raised his fist and countered it. The white flash of light revealed a plunging mass of startled horses and spectral riders flinching away from the heat and flame. For a moment Myrkjartan's solitary figure blazed against the night before the darkness covered him.
A ferocious icy blast tore at the house, snatching everyone's breath away and riming every crack with frost. It was colder than the worst winter blizzard. A second, even stronger blast followed it, shattering the wood covering one window, and a portion of the weakened roof began to collapse.
"We can't survive much more of this," Brak gasped to Pehr, trying to protect himself with his cloak, but it might as well have been cobwebs for all the good it did him. Another blast caused the roof to crumble alarmingly, showering half the room with bits of turf and clouds of dust. When the dust cleared, and Brak had stopped choking, he looked around for Ingvold. She was no longer beside him, and he didn't see her anywhere in the wrecked hall. Worse yet, he discovered her dragon's heart in his pocket. He hid it quickly.
"Ingvold?" he called. "Pehr, I think she's gone!"
"What? You were supposed to be watching her." Pehr did not emerge from his safe niche between the chest and the wall.
"Gone! By all the fleas in Loki's cloak!" Hafthorr glared out into the darkness. "It was her fylgja that ran right across my back and out the windowЧa little white fox with a black tip on its tail. Confusticate her for a willful child! She can't survive out there alone." He made a move toward the window, but Tostig grabbed his arm.
"It's too late. Listen to them; they've seen her!"
The Myrkriddir broke into a wild cry, like a pack of hunting hounds with their quarry in view. Brak covered his ears, not caring if he looked like a nithling.
Hafthorr clapped him on the back comfortingly, growling, "Don't worry about her, lad. With a fox for a fylgja, she'll be clever enough to escape them. They haven't a chance of catching such a small, quick creature, and she knows it. This will give us the opportunity to take you to Hrodney."
"Perhaps she'll be waiting for us there," Brak said.
"I don't understand about foxes and fylgur," Pehr declared. "Do you mean to tell us Ingvold has changed herself into a real foxЧfour legs, tail, ears, and whiskers?"
Tostig and several others stared at Pehr. "Do you mean you can't?" one fellow inquired incredulously.
Tostig elbowed him out of the way and said, "Certainly not, you dolt, and it's rude of you to discuss it. The Sciplings have no fylgur, and they don't seem to miss them in the least."
"But how is it possibleЧ" Pehr began, glowering around for an explanation or a twinkle in someone's eye to prove that it was all a joke at his expense.
"Never mind, Pehr," Brak said anxiously. "I'll tell you what I know about it later. Really, you're frightfully dense sometimes!"
The Myrkriddir did not reappear that night. Brak thought he would never sleep, so he sat beside the fire, nodding and starting awake at the least puff of wind in the chimney or the creaking of a roof timber. In the morning the ruin of the hall looked less sinister, and a large breakfast restored his spirits from a state of stark terror to a condition of pugnacious anxiety. He was impatient to get started, and even old Faxi was not content anywhere else but right at the heels of Hafthorr's horse, where he administered judicious nips to encourage it to hurry.
They hadn't traveled long before they once again discovered the ley-line, heading directly east. It was plainly marked and seemed to be well traveled enough that it merited a faint path. Hafthorr and the three men accompanying him jogged along as if it were nothing but a pleasure ride, singing insulting scalds at one another like the best of friends.
At midday the path ended within view of a tiny hut backed against a towering rocky fell. Moss covered the little house so completely it might have gone unnoticed by any casual travelers passing that way, and there probably were almost none.
As they approached, they could see a straight old woman clad in black waiting for them. She wore a blue shawl over her head and carried a small basket to hold the herbs and moss she had been gathering.
"Good day to you, Hafthorr," she said with no particular friendliness as her eyes traveled over Pehr and Brak, not missing a detail. "I see you are traveling with strangers. Will you all light down for a bit of refreshment before going on your way?"
Gladly Hafthorr dismounted. "It's these young Sciplings who have some business for you," he said. "It's very astonishing and something of a puzzle to me, but I suspect these fellows are going to ask you to put them through the gate into the Alfar realm. If I were you, I'd want to know more about it before IЧ"
"HafthorrЧ" Hrodney's calm gray gaze did not falter. "You are not me, so you may keep your advice to yourself. Will you walk in, or do you want to drink tea out here with the horses?"
Hafthorr and his men were polite and uncomfortable for the rest of their short visit. When a decent interval had passed, Hrodney dismissed them with a pointed suggestion that it was time they returned to Hafthorrsstead. With a last perplexed farewell to Pehr and Brak, Hafthorr went on his way, probably lamenting that his curiosity would have to go unsatisfied.
"Well, then." Hrodney again studied her guests, folding her arms across her spare stomach and narrowing her gaze. "Why should I risk my position and reputation by sending two Sciplings into a realm where they do not belong? A realm where they would probably perish quite shortly, and most unpleasantly."
Brak shrank back in his chair away from her hostile scrutiny. Pehr gave him a sharp nudge with his foot. Brak cleared his throat. "It's becauseЧwell, no doubt you remember a girl who passed your way last night. A skinny young girl with fair hair and a ragged gray cloak and an old pair of shoes. I have some property of hers to return to herЧ"
"Maybe I remember and maybe I don't," Hrodney interrupted. "Why do you want to catch her so badly? Did she do you some harm? Do you wish to do her harm? What is this property you wish to return to her?"