"Boyer, Elizabeth - Thrall And The Dragon's Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Boyer Elizabeth)
"We want to help you get rid of this curse," Brak said. "And what about Dyrstyggr? Can you find him all by yourself? You'll need someone to stand guard while you sleep, someone to cook your food, or catch and kill it when necessary. You'll need someone to talk to when it gets lonely."
Ingvold ate in stubborn silence for some time. Then she shrugged. "My realm is not a good place. I don't think Sciplings could survive there for very long. What does Pehr want to do? I can't imagine he'd want to do much traveling with a hag who has nearly ruined his feet."
"He's in perfect agreement with me." Brak hurriedly gave Pehr a shake, hardly daring to turn his back on Ingvold lest she try to disappear again.
Pehr awoke with the customary groans and yawns, as if the night were scarcely long enough for all the sleep be needed. "I thought you might die during the night," he greeted her. "Finding you has been nothing but trouble from the very beginning at Katla's house. I hope if you have another inclination to go riding by midnight you'll stay away from me." He kept a wary distance from her as he helped himself to the breakfast preparations. "In the Quarter my father rules, hags are burned alive or thrown into crevices in the ice."
Ingvold inclined her head. "In my realm, hags are bound and staked down in a bog to prevent their draugar from walking. Perhaps worse, wizards often try to cure them, sometimes successfully, most fatally. For that reason I dare not return to my friends and family in Snowfell and submit to the horrors of a cure. Far better to die by my own choosing as an outlaw and an outcast from my own people."
"Let's not dwell on death, shall we?" Pehr growled. "It seems to me you have an obligation to us to get Myrkjartan off our necks somehow, and dying isn't exactly going to help any of us."
Ingvold rose impatiently to stalk around the tiny room. "I didn't injure you purposely, I assure you, or willingly. I offer you my apology and I hope you'll accept it, because I won't offer it again. I also offer you a bit of this salve I carry, which will make your wounds feel much better."
"Oh, that's all right, I'll survive," Pehr said hastily as she drew a small blue vial from a pouch on her belt. "Your apology is accepted, I promise. You don't have to put yourself out."
"But I insist. I meant to give you some, but it was such a good opportunity to run away from Katla that I couldn't resist. Now sit down and take off those bandages and put them in the fire."
Pehr's blisters and abrasions, unwrapped, revealed a loathsome red aspect and considerable swelling that must have been getting more painful by the day. Ingvold gently applied the colorless ointment, and Pehr tried to look as if it didn't hurt. "It's not serious," he said gruffly. "I don't know why you want to make such a fussЧexcept you do owe us a few favors."
"Yes, but I don't think taking you with me is any favor to you," Ingvold replied, corking her vial and putting it away.
"Well, you'd better not leave us," Pehr said. "We know enough of what's going on that Myrkjartan and Hjordis want us out of the way, so you've got to take us to some place safe until your wars are done with. It still seems strange to me that a scrawny little girl could know anything important enough to end a war. Why can't you just tell the right people and end it then and there?"
Ingvold sighed in exasperation. "Do you think they'd believe me any quicker than you would? They'd lock me up instantly and start their cure, which I doubt I would survive."
"Tell them where Dyrstyggr is," Brak suggested, but Ingvold shook her head furiously.
"You Sciplings don't understand. Dyrstyggr isn't just sitting in a cave somewhere, waiting to be found. Myrkjartan has concealed him, using magic. What magic has concealed, only magic will reveal."
"There must be plenty of wizards in Snowfell," Pehr said.
"But none who have this." She removed the chain from her neck and showed them the gold box it carried. Brak stared at the workmanship, which was a design of intertwining serpents and symbols he had never seen. "The necklace itself is nothing. What matters is what this little case contains. It is a dragon's heart, given as a gift of friendship to my father from Dyrstyggr after the last wars where they fought together. It has been in my father's keeping for many years, and now I am the last of the family, so I am obliged to carry it and use it when necessary. Before he died, my father gave it to me and warned me that I might have to use it against Myrkjartan and Hjordis. The draugar had been stalking and destroying the hill forts, drawing closer to Snowfell each night; then one night they came to Gljodmalborg. I alone escaped, with this last gift from my father. It is, or once was, the remains of a dragon's heart, which entitles its bearer to guidance from the Rhbus. In this way, I shall find Dyrstyggr and free him, and he will destroy Myrkjartan and Hjordis before they destroy the Ljosalfar."
"Why didn't you do it earlier?" Pehr demanded. "Escaping from Katla wasn't that hard, was it? And who are these Rhbus of yours? Relatives? Wizards? Gods?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody talks about the Rhbus that way," Ingvold snapped. "The name means 'dexterous and shining.' They are the keepers of all Alfar magic and knowledge, and very few common Alfar ever speak with them."
"Then why don't they solve your problem with Dyrstyggr, if they know so much?" Pehr asked.
Ingvold whirled around. "It's not so simple, you simpleton. If they did everything for us, what would we become?" "But what are they good for if they just sit in a cave somewhere with all their precious knowledge heaped up around their ears? Do they hoard it like old misers, or do they pass out dragons' hearts like name-day presents? It seems to me that if they're so powerful, they ought to be worrying about Dyrstyggr and Myrkjartan and Hjordis, not a puny little girl who would fly away in a puff of wind." Pehr glared at Ingvold, who was getting angrier by the minute.
"You don't understand the Alfar!" Ingvold retorted. "Nor any of our ways. We believe in choosing for ourselves, so the Rhbus keep out of the way. It's quite plain to me that I could never take you into my realm, so the best thing to do is for me to lead Myrkjartan away from you for now, and as soon as I can, I'll send someone to help you. Perhaps the old man on the fell can hide you. The high places, you know, are safe places." She picked up her bundle and started toward the door. "I hope your feet are feeling better soon."
Pehr only grunted and attempted to stalk away, limping sorely. Then he looked at his feet. In place of the ugly, running blisters was pink, healthy skin. He gave a shout of astonishment and began to prance around in delight. "It must be magic!" he yelled. "Beautiful, glorious magic! I'm cured! They don't hurt in the least!"
Brak darted after Ingvold. She stopped and glanced at him. "You'll never give up, will you, Brak? I think you'd be safer with the old man on the fell than by coming with me. It would be so easy for you to be killed in my realm."
"WellЧall right, just for a while. As soon as we reach a safe place for you to stay, I'll go on alone."
Brak had no time to agree or protest; Pehr came stamping out of the hut in the new boots he had purchased from a traveler at Vigfusstead.
"Splendid boots, aren't they?" he greeted them. "I'd begun to wonder if I'd ever wear them. Ingvold, I thank you and your magic salve for restoring my feet. You've certainly convinced me that I was wrong before, and a great many other Sciplings are wrong, too, for not believing in magic. Wouldn't my father Thorsten be amazed if we could show him how Ingvold's potion works?"
"No more amazed than I," Ingvold said, "if anything could induce me to stay in a realm where no magic was practiced."
When they were ready to depart, Brak insisted that Ingvold ride Faxi, while he walked behind, helped along by an occasional pull from Faxi's long tail. Ingvold insisted upon taking turns so that Brak wouldn't have to walk all day, but since she was still weak, it was Pehr who had to walk. He did a lot of grumbling and growling about it, and Brak knew it was his place to walk while his chieftain rode, but Ingvold loftily informed them that in the Alfar realm no one was too good not to walk.
They camped that night in a shallow cave behind a screen of water cascading down the face of the rock. Ingvold passed the time by telling them about her realm and people and showing them a few elementary tricks, such as moving inanimate objects, lighting fires with a spell, and finding small objects which Brak would hide from her.
"Just childish tricks," she said with a shrug, nodding a stick of wood into the fire. "Every Alfar is born with a few skills. It takes years of education to get really good at anything, and I was taken away before I could get started."
"But about these wars with the draugar," Pehr persisted, never satisfied with what Ingvold told him. "What started the Dark Alfar fighting against the Light Alfar, and how long has it been going on?"
Ingvold explained that the exact history of the wars was lost in the mists of magic itself, and that the forces of light and dark had always vied for power over all of Skarpsey. The Dark Alfar chose to use the dark powers of necromancy and evil and fear to gain control. Allied with the Dark Alfar were trolls, giants, and various clans of white or brown dwarves. The black dwarves, superior craftsmen and dedicated fighters, were usually loyal to Elbegast of the Light Alfar, or Ljosalfar. For centuries the Ljosalfar had held their own, which was all of Skarpsey that the sun touched, and the Dokkalfar and other evil creatures moiled around below the earth, digging mines and tunnels and waiting for darkness to do their skulking above. During the winter months, when the sun lost its strength and scarcely showed itself over the horizon, the evil powers waxed stronger and worked cunning schemes to overthrow their enemies.
"But why?" Brak inquired. "Isn't there room for everyone, above and below Skarpsey?"
"Certainly, but the Dokkalfar want to destroy us and our beliefs because they know we're right. If they eliminate us, then they'll be the only ones here and can feel right about the way they kill and torture and steal from each other. They are so horrible and utterly vile that in time they'd destroy themselves for lack of anyone else to victimize. Their magic is the dark, evil kind, like necromancy and the communion with the dead. Their power comes from past evil done by their ancient ancestors. They have unholy rings and barrows where they invoke their horrible curses and spells. Our magic places, on the other hand, are always high in the fells, as close to the sun as we can get. With so much evil in Skarpsey, the ancient Ljosalfar set stones to mark the safe paths from one place to the nextЧ although the ley-lines have fallen into much disrepair. The ancients used their stone circles for studying the heavens, but no one knows much about that science anymore. Sometimes the sites of the great stones are filled with such power that you can learn the answers to important questions and the secrets of past and future, and all without the use of necromancy. Myrkjartan has a ring which he puts under the tongue of a corpse which forces it to speak of the future."
Brak shuddered and advanced his toes a bit toward the fire. "Necromancy doesn't sound like a pleasant trade at all to me. Nor do I fancy those draugar you told us about, killed one day and alive the next, like no decent corpse ever was."
"I'm glad they're not in this realm," Pehr said, looking around him distrustfully.
"Yet, that is," Ingvold added, stirring the old patched pot they had salvaged from Gnupa's hut. "Your safe and smug Scipling realm wouldn't stay that way for long once Myrkjartan turned his covetous eyes on it. Have you heard of the Fimbul Winter, when the sun dies and the ice and bitter darkness cover the land?"
"We've heard legends about it," Pehr admitted.
"Myrkjartan and the other wizards would cast spells to cause the Fimbul Winter to return," Ingvold said. "To all realms, ice is ice and dark is dark."
"And death is death," Brak added.
"It's just a legend, isn't it?" Pehr said hopefully.
"If it is, it has been around Skarpsey for a long timeЧ much longer than you Sciplings have been here."
Pehr answered with a huffy snort, as he always did when Ingvold reminded him that there were things the Sciplings didn't know about. The idea that the busy sea traders and sheep farmers were a comparatively recent development was particularly disturbing.
On the third day of their travels eastward they stopped beside an upright stone which Ingvold declared to be one of the stones set in the ley-lines by her ancient ancestors. She greeted it with pleasure and pointed out some pockmarks on one side which might have been carving at some long-ago time.
"This is a safe place," she said, slipping off Faxi to look around at the bleak landscape surrounding the hill they stood on. "This stone was brought from a very far place to be put here. You can see there are no other white stones nearby."
Pehr walked around the stone, studying it. "Why, it must weigh thousands of pounds. It would take a hundred horses to drag it up here. As for standing it uprightЧ"
"But that's only if you use horses and muscles to move it," Ingvold said, tracing the pockmarks with her finger. "I'm sure you know by now that there are other ways of moving things. Have you a piece of string, Brak?"
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