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

Vigfus hurried to open the door, welcoming the traveler and inviting him to share all the bounties of board and bed that Vigfusstead had to offer. The traveler stepped inside and stood holding his staff as he regarded the company in silence for a moment. Brak thought he cut an old-fashioned figure, with his long gray beard flowing down to his belt, which snugged in a shapeless garment that came down to his boot tops; a voluminous cloak covered him nearly to the heels. Modern men wore trousers stuffed into their boots, shorter, lesser cloaks, and hats rather than long-tailed hoods. The old style looked downright menacing to Brak; and what was more peculiar, Brak observed that the cloth was all fairly newЧnot old and rusty like the clothing of some of the ancients around Thorstensstead.
As the stranger stepped into the hall, a quirk of wind gusted in after him, revealing for a moment the rich red lining of the cloak. Brak caught his breath, remembering his indistinct view of Myrkjartan's black and red cloak through the film of flame.
"Well, old fellow, sit down and make yourself at home," Vigfus was saying jovially, not noticing, as Brak did, how the stranger was staring at the assembled merchantmen and landowners and retainers as if they were just as odd fish to him as he was to them.
"Aye, thank you," he grumbled, walking stiffly to a table and seating himself, leaning his staff nearby. The silence in the hall was rather awkward; the garrulous Sciplings for once could think of nothing to say.
"Have you a horse to be stabled?" Vigfus asked, making him comfortable with a cushion, ordering food and drink from the kitchen, and offering a set of fleece slippers, which the stranger waved away.
"The stableman showed me where to put my horse. In a stall next to a stout speckled horse, a most unusual animal."
The words struck ice into Brak's soul. In rigid terror he looked at the stranger, knowing he was unable to keep his face from being read like a book, and the stranger gazed back at him with the cold, colorless eyes of a snake. Brak knew with utter certainty that this was Myrkjartan, the necromancer.
When the food arrived, the necromancer ceased his scrutiny of Brak and began to refresh himself. Brak edged nearer to Pehr and prodded him with his foot, making signs with grimaces and facial contortions until Pehr began to glare at him. The usual genial roar of men's voices soon reached its old level as the guests laughed and tried to out-talk each other, which offered a good screen for a quiet conversation.
"Pehr, that's Myrkjartan," Brak whispered. "Did you notice how he mentioned Faxi to let us know it was him?"
"That's the man you saw undergroundЧor thought you saw?" Pehr eyed Myrkjartan sideways and moved his sore feet uneasily on the pillow Vigfus' wife had fussed up for him. "What should we do about him? He looks like an old, dried stick to me, and I'd gladly break him if he had anything to do with that Ingvold business." He glared at Myrkjartan to mask his growing uncertainty. If one admitted to the existence of genuine hags, it opened the door for wizards and necromancers and trolls and who knew what else. Pehr's years of civilized education were beginning to totter on weakening legs.
"What's he going to do?" Pehr whispered.
Brak shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know, but I suspect he's after Ingvold so she won't tell anyone anything about her necklace."
"What about you?" Pehr demanded, but Brak ignored him.
"Ingvold was here this morning, and my aunt said she went east to Hrappsrivercrossing. We can inquire there about her and then go after her to warn her and offer our help."
"No, we won't. We're going to the Thing."
"You might be, but I'm not. Ingvold is more important than a bunch of old lawsuits and feuds and weregild. You were more involved than I was; I'm surprised you don't want to help her."
"Help her! I never want to see her againЧparticularly around the time of the full moon. Brak, are you sure you're not imagining all this?" If his father Thorsten were here, Pehr wouldn't need any reassurance. Thorsten disclaimed all magic and would snort this necromancer away like a mote of dust. "I think we'd better find my father soon, because I've got some questions for him. Things like this just aren't supposed to happen nowadays."
"Something certainly happened to your feet," Brak replied.
Pehr merely grunted and looked away with a frown. "One way we might find out something more definite," he said musingly, "would be to have a look through the fellow's possessions tonight while he's asleep. As crowded as it is tonight, he'll have to sleep on the floor by the fire. As soon as we're certain he's snoring away, you'll nip down the loft ladder and take a look in his pouches."
"I will?" Brak was aghast. "I've never done anything like that in my life! I don't need to get any closer to him to tell what he is. He's a necromancer!"
Unfortunately, his last three words fell in a temporarily quiet hall. The jolly drinkers heard the piercing whisper and looked askance at the newcomer, who doubtless heard it, too. He gave no sign, however, continuing to sit, upright and silent, in a rather cold and gloomy corner. Brak didn't dare look at the man, imagining those cold, hard eyes boring right into him. He wiped his sweaty palms on his knees and tried not to think about Pehr's plan.
To make things even more worrisome, when everyone started moving toward eiders and slumber, the necromancer opted to sleep in the privacy of the stable rather than in the warm and crowded hall. Vigfus was distressed, but the old man answered that the cold and discomfort of the stable would be as nothing to one long accustomed to far worse accommodations.
"You'll have to go out to the stable to do your snooping," Pehr whispered to Brak. "I'd go myself, but I can't." He looked at his feet accusingly. "I'll be watching from the little loft window and I'll help you climb back inside. Don't worry, old duffers like that are usually deaf as doorposts and snore so loud they wouldn't hear a berserker raid. It'll be easy, Brak, even for you."
Brak and Pehr shared the loft with half a dozen other young blades on their way to the Thing. After a roistering straw fight and much laughter, they finally settled down to sleep. Pehr nudged Brak, whispering, "Wake up. All's quiet and it's time to get going."
Brak hadn't been sleeping. Unhappily, he squeezed himself through the small windowЧrather a tight fit for someone of his stocky frameЧand crept softly across the steep turf roof. The wind was now so silent that he had the feeling he was being watched. Consigning himself to the hands of unkind fate, he dropped off the roof and scuttled toward the stable. The horses were still restless, not caring, perhaps, for their unwelcome guest. Brak scraped in through a low window and looked around in despair at the complete blackness inside the stable. Something suddenly gave him a shove and he almost screamed, choking himself at the last instant when he realized it was only Faxi. That meant that the horse next to Faxi was Myrkjartan's.
He turned toward it, seeing only a shadowy mass looking back at him. It was a tall horse, either white or gray. A bit of moonlight seeped through the clouds, showing Brak what he most dreaded to seeЧMyrkjartan's saddle and pouches lying beside a heap of fresh straw made into a pallet, with a dark shape lying upon it.
Brak held his breath, not releasing it until he was lightheaded. He felt as if half the night had passed while he stood there staring, before he took a step toward the saddle. Nothing happened, so a long time later he took another step. Finally he was close enough to the pouches to touch them. His heart was thumping so loud he wondered if the necromancer could hear it. With wooden fingers he fumbled with a loop and peg fastener and tried to see inside the pouch. Reaching in, he felt something like old bones and bits of rotten cloth. Horrified, he shut that pouch and opened another, trembling in his haste to get done with an odious and thoroughly unnecessary task. The next pouch seemed to be a mixture of stones, chains, and coinsЧ probably gold. He also felt a smooth, cold sphere of some kind that instantly gave him a wild feeling of terror and doom.
He had more than enough. As he was turning to leave, a small bag rolled off a peg and fell at his feet in a splash of moonlight. The contents tumbled out, a round lumpish thing that seemed to be hairy. Brak grabbed it and dropped it with a muffled gasp. It was a head, dried quite perfectly, so that it looked almost alive. Brak nearly wept as he tried to force himself to touch it. Trembling, he rolled it over to see the features. To his horror, the eyes were open and glaring indignantly. He knew he couldn't bear to touch it.
Then the hairy features twisted and he heard a hoarse whisper. "Put me back in my sack, you idiot, before I blast you on the spot. Myrkjartan will hear of this, never you fear."
Brak uttered a soft moan and fumbled the sack over the head so that he wouldn't have to touch it, upended the bag, and hung it on its peg. Then he fled at top speed, not caring if he was careful and quiet. As he squeezed out the window, he thought he heard a dry chuckling sound behind him, which redoubled his energy for escaping. Like the greatest of athletes, he vaulted from the window and ran toward the hall at record speed, up the wall, across the roof, and in through the loft window almost in one fluid rush. He landed inside with a terrific crash, awakening several lads who grumbled and growled at the interruption of their sleep.
"It's just Brak," Pehr said in a petulant voice, "falling out of bed. I think he was dreaming he was riding a horse."
The others snickered and went back to sleep. Brak crawled into his bed, still breathing heavily. He shut his eyes and pretended to ignore Pehr's nudging at him.
"What did you find?" Pehr demanded in a dangerously loud and annoyed tone.
"Proof," was all Brak would say, but prolonged pinching, poking, and threatening finally extorted the entire story from him. When he was finished, Pehr snorted softly and thought for a long time.
"A severed head that talks," he muttered. "A round glass thing that gave you a bad feeling. I think you'd be frightened of your own shadow, sometimes."
"Myrkjartan is no shadow," Brak retorted warmly. "You saw him yourself, if you've got any eyes in your head. He's stalking us and Ingvold, and his intentions certainly aren't of a friendly nature. We were the stupid cause of Ingvold's taking flight with that heart, and he thinks we're spies besides. As I see it, we've got to catch Ingvold and ask her what we must do to escape from him. If we can help her at the same time, so much the better."
Pehr shifted his sore feet around impatiently. "I wish my father were here to ask about it. He'd summon up an army of neighbors and kinsfolks, and we'd soon see if this Myrkjartan wanted anything with us or not."
"Thorsten is too far away to be of any use to us," Brak replied.
"It seems to me," Pehr said in a solemn, musing tone, "if Myrkjartan is such a threat, it won't be long before he gets around to Sciplings, and simple weapons won't be much good against magic. Brak, I want you to tell me everything you know about magic and dwarves and elves and that sort of thing. If only my father and my teachers could hear me, they'd go into fits. You can tell me about it as we ride to HrappsrivercrossingЧand further inland if we have to, until we find Ingvold. If ever I'm going to be chieftain of a Quarter, I don't want to be threatened from a realm I can't even see. And Ingvold had better get Myrkjartan off our necks."
"Then you're going with me after Ingvold? I don't have to go alone? But what will Thorsten say?"
Pehr paused. "Perhaps he'll think we decided not to go to the Thing, or decided to go somewhere else. After all, I'm a grown man now and of an age to do almost anything I want to. I hope we'll get back home before he returns from the Thing and realizes we're missing."
In the morning Myrkjartan had vanished, leaving behind a bit of silver to pay for his lodgings. With thrills of dread, Brak inspected the place where he had lain for the night, making the discomfitting discovery that the necromancer seemed to have hardly crushed the straw and that the hay in his horse's manger was scarcely touched, as if neither horse nor master had remained in the stable very long.
Pehr and Brak set off early, riding toward Hrappsrivercrossing, intending to scout it out very carefully before approaching, in case Thorsten was still there. Pehr cursed Faxi's slowness at first, but he was repeatedly silenced when Faxi trotted past his tiring Asgrim and continued to jog along with few stops for rest.
At midday they arrived at Hrapp's house and learned that Thorsten had departed just hours before. The weather began to turn unpleasant, so Pehr and Brak were prevailed upon to stay the night. Pehr added a store of food and extra clothing to their supplies by dint of some skillful trading and subterfuge, and Brak hung around the servants, encouraging them to gossip. He soon learned that a young girl had stopped there and begged some food that morning before traveling on across the river. Brak looked at the cold, swift waters and wondered how a fragile creature like Ingvold had managed to cross without being swept onto the black rocks not far below the ford.
The night at Hrappsrivercrossing was windy, and Hrapp's animals burst from their barn and raced away into the night like mad things. In the morning Hrapp discovered that several cows and sheep had fallen off the cliffs and broken their necks or legs. The dairy was also awash with spilled cream pans and ruined cheese.
Brak shuddered, feeling responsible for the loss of the animals, but he was glad Faxi wasn't lying at the foot of a cliff with his legs broken. He wanted to tell Hrapp and his family that the trouble would be gone as soon as he and Pehr left, but he didn't dare open his mouth. He was still frightened enough that the whole business of hagriding and Myrkjartan might come flying out against his will.
As they were leavingЧa very late start after helping collect all the livestockЧa hired man stopped them with a message.
"From a friend of yours, or at least he said he was," the man said, hunching in his rough fleece coat uneasily. "Old feller with a long beard and one of those old-fashioned cloaks with the hood. Said to tell you he knew you were here but he couldn't stop. Expects to join you later at Vapnaford or Hafthorrsstead. Rather out-of-the-way places if you're going to Thingvellier, aren't they?"
"We don't know anyone of that description," Pehr said, with a startled glance at Brak. "It must have been a mistake on his part." But he passed the hired man a coin for his trouble before they rode on.
"Vapnaford. Hafthorrsstead," Brak mused. "The furthest inland settlements we know of, although I've known nothing of them but their names. If Ingvold is trying to get back to the Alfar realm, I believe she'd go inland, don't you?"