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

He continued his visual search of his surroundings while the daylight lasted. The mist was rising already, and he could see nothing of Hagsbarrow to the west. Then he looked northward and saw it, a cluster of longhouses and walls and squat, round towers clinging to the feet of a craggy scarp rising from the midst of the lesser hills. A bank of mist rose from its surrounding ditch and earthwork, winding its clammy banners from rooftops to towers to pinnacles of the rock. Brak shuddered and began to wish he hadn't ventured here alone. It was going to be dark before much longer. He had several hours of Skarpsey twilight before true night descended, so he began to hurry northward, skirting toward the east in the hope that he would meet Skalgr and Pehr approaching from that direction.
The area he was crossing was dank and soft underfoot. He passed several more stones, reflecting pools, and mounds that marked the ley-line to Hagsbarrow. He de-toured widely around a freshly excavated barrow and stumbled across a pit where someone had been digging peat.
He wished he hadn't come that way; it was a foul-smelling area and tended to murky fog that reeked of old barrows. Then, to Brak's great horror, he realized he had stumbled onto a recent battlefield. He passed a heap of dead horses and encountered several dead men, frozen and blue with Myrkjartan's icy death. He knew they must have been the defenders of Hagsbarrow before it had fallen to Myrkjartan. Brak darted a glance at the fortress, wreathed in cold mist. It seemed so close that it seemed to loom over him, crouching for a pounce. Bonfires on the earthwork began appearing like the opening of sullen, watchful eyes, one by one.
Brak scuttled from one bit of cover to the next as the daylight swiftly disappeared. Hosts of frogs croaked their dismal dirges from their marshy cloisters, and the lowering sun paused to favor Hagsbarrow with a last lurid scowl before vanishing forever into a blanket of black cloud. Desperately Brak hurried along, searching for a place to hide. Then he heard a sound that froze him to the earthЧ the low chuckling and chattering of the Myrkriddir. As he watched, a group of them appeared on the roof of the largest longhouse, jostling their ragged horses together and greeting one another with derisive shrieks. They took to the air in a noisy, untidy mass and came flying toward him. He squeezed himself into the closest shelter and, after a rather suspenseful struggle between two slabs of rock, found himself inside a small, empty barrow. The place was narrow and musty, but he doubted that the Myrkriddir could get him out without digging him out.
They plummeted to the earth not far away and galloped toward him, their bony faces gleaming. Brak covered his face, except for one eye, as the Myrkriddir descended on his hiding place. He glimpsed their rotting grave garments and locks of matted beards and hair and their eyes that glowed like hot coalsЧand then they were gone without so much as a glance at him. In the sudden silence, he peered out, doubtful of his unexpected reprieve. He saw them skimming like storm clouds over the marshlands toward the north, descending suddenly with a clamoring outcry. In a short while they came riding through the tall black reeds, cackling and jeering in triumph. When they passed, Brak was horrified to recognize Faxi and Asgrim being led behind. Two bundles tossed over the leaders' saddlebows must have been Pehr and Skalgr. Skalgr, at least, was still alive, protesting and threatening. As he passed, Brak could hear him wheedling: "Myrkjartan is a most particular friend of mine, so let me speak to him at once, you grinning ninnies, or you'll all find yourselves turned into bootblacking rags. I have influence with Skarnhrafn, too. Send word to them both that I brought this Scipling captive as a gift from Skalgr."
Brak shrank further into his hiding place, sick with fury at himself for trusting an old reprobate like Skalgr. He lay there for hours, not daring to move. The Myrkriddir reappeared and scoured the marshlands for him. Other creatures came out with the advent of nightfall, horrible beings that scrambled around in the dark, squabbling among themselves. To Brak's horror, they hauled the dead bodies from the shadows, swiftly robbed them of all valuables and equipment, and went scuttling back to the hill fort. Then others came, huge creatures, more awful than the corpse-robbers, and dragged the poor bodies away, probably to be restored as Myrkjartan's draugar.
He spent the night watching and shivering in revulsion, dozing from time to time and having grisly nightmares. When the dawn came, he had never been so thankful to see the sun; He waited until it was well up, then crawled from his hiding place and speedily took himself back to the nearest safe point he could determine. It was a slight knob of hill with a solitary stone, and he threw himself down in the grass, feeling perfectly miserable. He stared at the fortress crouching on its black fang of lava rock, wondering how he would ever summon the courage to go in after Pehr. Thoughts of vengeance upon Skalgr began to fortify his courage, however, until he was almost ready. He clutched the dragon's heart, wondering how to use it.
He spent the day advancing his position and studying his objective. The only entrance to Hagsbarrow was on its south side, on the spine of the spit of lava it rested upon. Brak approached it by subtle degrees until he found himself a hiding place in the jumble of stones surrounding the base of the outcropping earthwork. He saw no signs of life in the longhouses above, but the tightly shuttered doors and windows had a watchful attitude that made him very uneasy. The longhouses were arranged in a square, so anyone entering would have to pass through a rather narrow gateway, which was blocked by a heavy gate. A pair of round watchtowers turned their slitted windows to survey the surrounding country in all directions, and Brak felt certain a hundred pairs of eyes were fastened balefully upon him, making a mockery of all his careful hiding and skulking.
Toward dusk, the shadows in the rocks around Brak began to stir. To Brak's fright, the corpse-robbers and body-haulers came to life around him, unfolding like bats from their dark niches for another night's work. Brak remained still, hoping to escape the notice of their gleaming eyes and ferreting noses. Some of them even possessed sharp, upright ears tufted with hair, and he was certain he saw some with long, ropy tails. Trolls, he decided with a thrill of dread.
He escaped their notice in their eager rush to get to their work. They carried their booty up to the gate, where they were rewarded with bits of food which they consumed at once, viciously rebuffing any usurpers. The reward for an entire corpse seemed pitifully small to BrakЧa piece of bread the size of a fist and a bit of dried fish.
Brak looked at the gatekeepers, who were Myrkriddir, and despaired of slipping in unnoticed. The heap of corpses and equipment grew slowly, with much wrangling over the payments. The smaller scavengers had scarcely a chance, Brak noted; the larger trolls or whatnot either seized the objects they had salvaged or stole their food from them when they did manage to reach the gate with some small object.
With a sudden scattering of the scavengers, the gate opened and Myrkjartan rode out on his gray horse, followed by a black, hulking Myrkridda. Instantly, the scrabbling and snarling of the scavengers was silenced, and they melted away into the shadows to watch, their eyes gleaming in the twilight. The Myrkridda raised the visor of his helmet, and fiery light raked the battlefield. Brak crouched further into his niche. The eyes of Skarnhrafn were like twin scythes of fire, searing all their glance touched. Brak recoiled, quaking in fear as the fiery beams swept over his hiding place. Then a clank of metal signaled the end of
Skarnhrafn's inspection of the battlefield. When Brak dared to look up, he saw a dark, brooding hulk, with tiny glimmers of fire showing through each rivet hole and seam of the helmet. The great draug and his master were so close that he could hear them when they spoke.
"GljodmalborgЧHagsbarrowЧwe're yet a long way from Snowfell," the draug rumbled. "Eleven hill forts stand between us and our goal, Master."
"Ten, if Hjordis successfully takes Miklborg." "I don't trust Hjordis. What are Dokkalfar good for, except peat for fires? Hjordis would be better use to us dead, Master. Much more cooperative as a draug."
"I'd have it done in a moment if I could arrange it decently. Dyrstyggr's cloak and helmet and sword should be in the same hands."
"And the dragon's heart also, Master." "You'd better not mention that if you want to keep me in a good humor," Myrkjartan snapped.
"Humors are unhealthy," Skarnhrafn growled. "Much better to be dry and dusty, like us draugar. Nothing to trouble you but an occasional moth or rat. We'd better be leaving Hagsbarrow soon, or your army will be chewed to pieces. With the help of the Rhbus, we could make the draugar indestructible."
"The Alfar girl is still unrelenting, is she not?" "Perhaps she'll never surrender it of her own free will, Master, before she dies."
Brak strained his ears to hear more about Ingvold. He crept a bit closer, unable to straighten his back without stabs of pain. While he was in this awkward predicament, a pair of scavengers suddenly rounded a boulder and took one look at him and attacked. They pounced upon his good cloak with shrieks of glee, and one seized the pouch hanging from his shoulder. Brak buffeted the first scavenger away and flattened the one fastened to his pouch with a single blow. Two others backed away when he straightened himself to his full height, and took to their heels in terror when he lunged at them. Their shrieking attracted the notice of Skarnhrafn, who swept the area with his gaze until all the scavengers lurking there ran for their lives. It was getting much too hot for Brak also. Rabbit-like, he bounded from shelter to shelter, encountering knots of scavengers who instantly recognized him for something unusual and began pursuing him with a great clamoring outcry. The fire of Skarnhrafn's eyes passed overhead, illuminating his fleeing form almost to perfection.
"It's the other Scipling! Fetch him, Skarnhrafn!" Myrkjartan commanded. Skarnhrafn replied with a wild howl, echoed by Myrkriddir in the hill fort and others prowling the battlefield. Excitedly they dived at the scurrying scavengers, spying anything that moved, so Brak wedged himself into a crevice and watched for an opportunity. Raucous Myrkriddir galloped through the sky overhead, taking care not to incinerate themselves in Skarnhrafn's raking gaze. Presently their gleeful screeching turned to baffled howls. Brak crept warily from rock to rock without being detected, until he reached the edge of the rocky skirt of Hagsbarrow and contemplated a dash across the battle plain to the relative safety of the marshes.
Drawing several deep breaths, he glanced around. The Myrkriddir were busy ferreting out the wrong specimen on the other side of the ramp leading up to the gate, so he leaped up and sped out onto the battlefield. When he was halfway across, he heard a wild, clamorous shriek behind him that provided him with an extra burst of speed and bathed him in cold sweat. Myrkriddir came swooping from the hill fort, too far away to do more than scream in frustration.
He had nearly reached the safe hill when his foot slogged deep into soft mud, nearly pulling his boot off as he lurched and almost fell. The foot came out of the muck, but the other foot sank deep into soft, squelching mud and refused to be pulled out. Brak floundered and struggled, but the bog had its hold on him and had no intention of letting him go. The Myrkriddir howled in triumph and soon swarmed around him like a flock of motley ravens eager to peck out the eyes of their bog-mired victim.

Chapter 8

Cursing at them, himself, and his situation in general, Brak lashed at the hateful creatures with a small knife, and the Myrkriddir howled with glee. They buffeted at him, mocking and jeering, until at least thirty of the awful things had gathered to torment their captive.
A shout halted their antics instantly, sending them skulking away with hoots and snickers. As they departed, Brak recognized Myrkjartan approaching. He banished the Myrkriddir with a sharp gesture and stared doubtfully at Brak. He nudged his horse as near as it would approach and offered Brak the end of his staff, which Brak was loath even to touch. The knob was carved into the shape of a grinning skull.
"Come along, it's better than dying in the mud, isn't it?" Myrkjartan snapped, turning the horse and drawing Brak out of the mud with a loud, squelching pop and nearly pulling his arms from their sockets. Then the necromancer stared at Brak. "I can scarcely believe that even a young and stupid Scipling would be so foolish as to wander deliberately into Hagsbarrow alone. Or into an open Dokkalfar tunnel to spy upon Hjordis. Why is it you insist upon being so fatally inquisitive?" He poked Brak along in the direction he wanted him to go, as if herding an errant sheep.
Brak stumbled miserably in his mud-covered boots, maintaining a stubborn silence.
"Won't talk, eh? Well, it's no matter. I know everything I need to know about you and that wretched Ingvold. A most tiresome individual, that girl. I hope you'll make yourself useful and help me persuade her to give up the dragon's heart to those who can use it to a greater extent than she ever could, even with the assistance of old Dyrstyggr." Myrkjartan laughed and prodded Brak a little harder with his staff. "What curious friends Ingvold choosesЧan old rag like Skalgr and a great timid lump like you. Her plans to thwart me are doomed at the beginning. Hjordis, too, will suffer some slight disappointments," he added slyly with a chuckle.
A grinning group of Myrkriddir waited for them just inside the gate, raising a chorus of hisses and cackles at the sight of Brak.
"Put him in my workroom," Myrkjartan commanded. "I want him left alive, so don't waste any time torturing him unless you want to be used as spare parts for better fighters than you'll ever be."
Two of the creatures seized Brak's arms and hauled him away into one of the longhouses. It was musty and gloomy, with the central corridor littered with what Brak first assumed was firewood cast in untidy heaps; but as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that it was heaps of corpses, still peaty after their recent extraction from the bogs. The Myrkriddir hurried him along, not allowing him time to choose his footing with more care, so that he was stumbling over the dry husks of men much against his will. On either side of the corridor, the long rooms seemed crowded with more corpses, but Brak soon became aware of a rustling and stirring among them. Several times shriveled hands shot out at the intruders, but the Myrkriddir struck them away with angry growls, or took a thrust at the draugar with the staffs they carried.
The last chamber in the longhouse was partitioned off and set apart with a stout door, which the Myrkriddir hammered upon until it was opened by a dark, shuffling creature that beckoned them in and quickly closed the door. The room was lit by a low fire and two lamps on a large table: The doorkeeper glided back to its place beside the cavernous hearth to tend the meager fire, by the light of which Brak took his first good look at a draug. It was covered mostly with scraps of rags which did little to hide its fleshless limbs and leathery hide, dyed a deep brown by the peat. Brak's hair lifted in horrified fascination as he watched the creature mechanically adding sticks of peaty fuel to the fire. As the light burned brighter, with a sullen red gleam, Brak realized that the fuel was discarded pieces of draugar that were apparently too broken up to be mended for service. A few peaty old skulls waited patiently for immolation, dry and withered as old toadstools.
The Myrkriddir shoved him toward a dark corner, where something suddenly stirred in the shadows. A voice shrilled, "Who's that? Who's here? You don't dare annoy us, you know, or it'll go the worse for you!"
"Skalgr!" Brak exclaimed. "It's me, Brak. It is you, isn't it, Skalgr? You cheat, you nithling! You tricked us! How much did you expect to get for us from Myrkjartan?"
"He didn't get anything," Pehr said with a chuckle. "Nobody believed his protestations of undying loyalty to Myrkjartan and Hjordis. I hope they cut you up for dog meat, SkalgrЧexcept it will probably make the dogs sick."
The Myrkriddir made a few threatening gestures and retreated to guard the door. Brak sat down on a bench, after warily pushing away what he supposed was a corpse.
"I am desperately sorry," Skalgr continued, sounding genuinely sorrowful. "I confess I was at first motivated solely by the prospect of immediate gain, since my old lord Dyrstyggr is in lamentably dire straits at present. I knew Myrkjartan was looking for two Sciplings, so I decided to offer him my services, which he rather unkindly rejected. I greatly overestimated his sense of honor, I fear. I'll never again be tempted by the dark side. In fact, I have a marvelous plan for getting my revenge upon himЧ"
"Just be quiet, won't you?" Pehr invited. "We're not interested in your marvelous plans, or anything about you. Brak, you can't imagine what it's been like locked up with this old windbag for two days. What happened to you anyway? How could you have gone off like that without telling us? I was worried sick!" Pehr launched into a lecture, which Brak scarcely heard. He was looking around more sharply at their prison and liking it less the more he saw of it.
"What sort of place is this?" he demanded. "All that stuff stacked along the walls and under the table certainly isn't firewood, is it?"
"Bless you, no, it isn't," Skalgr replied with a cackle. "This is Myrkjartan's workshop, where he puts draugar together and brings the dead back to life. He commands them to do his bidding until they're too battered to repair, and then it's into the fire with them. They make a very pleasant blaze." He rubbed his hands appreciatively, then added, "Brak, you haven't anything to eat in that pouch, have you?"
"No! You can starve for all I care!" Brak snapped. "We'll all probably die here anyway."
"No, no, trust me once again," Skalgr said. "It will all work out most agreeably if we watch for our chance. We can even take Ingvold with us when we escape. From outside, freeing her would be much more difficult. And you do agree we mustn't leave her with Myrkjartan and Hjordis."
"Ingvold! Then she is here, for certain?" Brak asked. "Oh, yes, and she hasn't given the heart to Myrkjartan either," Skalgr replied with a conspiratorial snigger. "Listen, I really do have the cleverest plan for getting out of hereЧ"
The door burst open suddenly with a scattering of Myrkriddir who capered into the room and swooped at the prisoners menacingly, until Myrkjartan strode into the room and silenced them with a shout. His cloak swirled from his shoulders, where it was held by two skull-faced brooches. He glowered at his prisoners, then beckoned toward the door. Another Myrkridda dragged Ingvold forward, stiffly resisting with all the dignity she could muster in spite of her ragged appearance.
Myrkjartan glowered from Ingvold to his other prisoners, eyeing his most recent acquisition with a moody scowl. "You see where your curiosity has brought you now, Scipling? I shall be forced to kill you presently, I fear, unless you can convince Ingvold to give up that dried morsel of old meat which someone has invested with such outlandish powers. You'd rather she gave it up, wouldn't you?"
Brak shook his head, acutely conscious of the little case inside his shirt. "You'll never get it," he said with a dry swallow.
"That threat won't work," Ingvold declared in her clear, fearless voice. "If you harm my friends to force me to give it to you, the Rhbus won't consider it a gift of free will. One touch, and you'll suffer a curse like that of Hjordis. You've seen her hands, haven't you? And lately she's kept her face covered a lot; don't you rather wonder why?"