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

Brak felt in his pockets and produced a short piece of string he had twisted from milkweed fibers for something to do as he walked along. Ingvold bound one end around a pebble and began to dowse, testing several directions before pointing to the east. The rough pendulum was gyrating in tight circles. "That's the way to Hrodney's house. Hafthorrsstead is right along the way, which is a good place to stop for the night."
Pehr began to protest at once, but Ingvold interrupted. "Dowsing is so simple that Sciplings can do it, especially for water. Springs underground have a great deal of power, which may be the reason so many of our old lines cross over underground water. Brak, watch for smaller white mark-stones placed along the line to guide us."
The mark-stones led them to a single small hill and from there to a notch in the skyline of a large fell. Ingvold confidently told them that the notch had been cut by hands as another guidepost along the line. Pehr looked around bleakly and shook his head. "I think we're lost," he declared. The faint trace of a road had vanished long before. "Nonsense," Ingvold replied, and led them down the fell into a misty, sulfurous valley where hot springs and geysers played their peculiar tricks. They stopped once for a swim in a large pool that was exactly the right temperature for bathing. By the time they had crossed the steaming, sinister place, the afternoon was far advanced. Ingvold led the way confidently, bending their course slightly to the south, while Pehr fussed over his sketchy map and wondered how they would ever find themselves again.
"We'll be there easily by supper time," Ingvold insisted. Pehr looked doubtfully at the pebble on the end of the string and shook his head with a long, weary sigh. "Rocks," he grumbled. "Mere rocks."
They crossed two more fells, and the twilight began to deepen into the silvery light that lingered through much of the short northern night. It was the best possible light for Hafthorrsstead, which lay below them in neat diagrams. Lush green hay tuns surrounded the old black house, and flocks of sheep grazed on the opposite fell like drifting clouds on a shadowy sea. Ingvold did not even pretend to be anything less than smug.
Hafthorr himself was waiting to meet them when they rode up to the house, as if he had been expecting them. He was a short, stout fellow with a fierce beard of mingled red and silver and a sly, twinkling eye.
"There you are at last, three strangers wandering alone in the barrens of Skarpsey," he boomed, shaking them by the hands as they alighted. "Are you lost, strayed, or stolen from the comfortable roads of the Sciplings? This is not a place where people ride up unawares. However it is, you may make yourselves welcome for as long as you like; there's plenty of room and plenty of food."
"Thank you," Pehr said graciously, taking it upon himself to conduct the introductions of himself and his companions. "We're traveling to the house of Ingvold's relatives who live not far from here, so we won't trouble you by staying more than just the night."
Hafthorr raised one shaggy rusty eyebrow. "Relatives, eh? I was under the impression that we didn't have any neighbors around here. Come inside the house and sit down and refresh yourselves before we do any serious talking."
Ingvold shot Pehr a sharp look and signaled him to be quiet as they followed Hafthorr into his house. It was a pleasantly dark and smoky place, filled with tables and benches as if Hafthorr's family were very large indeed. Six burly fellows were already there, resting their elbows on one table and talking together, and more were coming in. Brak finally counted twelve youngish men and seven graybeards, including Hafthorr. Nine women served the dinner and took their seats on the dais at the end of the hall.
"We don't get many visitors here," Hafthorr said when the eating was finished and the drinking under way. "In fact, those who arrive here often decide to stay on indefinitely. Others find the air somehow hostile and have been known to die of strange complaints. Usually, when we want to deal with the settlements, we send a pack train and do our trading and selling or finding a wife for one of my sons. But we prefer to live here in peace by ourselves, and that depends upon preventing our enemies from running back to the settlements to talk about what they found here."
Brak understood at once when he was being threatened. Ingvold began chattering blandly about sheep and wool and other nonsense while the cold perspiration trickled down Brak's spine. It was most likely that Hafthorr and his sons, as he called them, were all outlaws and very desperate men. Skarpsey was known as a haven for outlaws, who lost themselves in its hostile ulterior and seldom survived the term of their banishment. Hafthorr had found a hospitable place, however, and had made a home for other outcasts like himself. Their continued existence, of course, depended upon secrecy.
"You say you are traveling to the girl's relatives?" Hafthorr questioned gently, paring his nails with a sharp little knife. When Pehr nodded warily, he sighed deeply and shook his head. "That is most unfortunate. I fear you're not telling us the entire truth. My son Tostig was at Vapnaford yesterday, and a fellow there was looking for three young runaways, two lads and a girl. He seemed to know a lot about you and said you were bound to him for eight years each. I hope we haven't caught you in a lie, my young friends. Those who come lying and sneaking to this house for no good reason usually come to no good end." He flashed the little knife in the firelight.
The other outlaws listened with smiling politeness. They wore their weapons casually, as if knife and sword were everyday attire and meant to be used at any moment.
"Was it an old fellow in a black cloak?" Ingvold asked. "And did he ride a gray horse?"
Tostig nodded. "You know him, then!"
"Know him!" Pehr exclaimed. "He's no friend of ours. In fact, we're doing our best to get away from him."
"Aha! Runaway thralls!" Tostig declared. "Just as I suspected!"
"Thralls! Us?" Pehr glared indignantly, but his temper cooled as he realized no one would believe him, since they all looked rather rough and dirty from sleeping on the ground for several nights.
Hafthorr scowled. "In the morning we'll take you back to your master, where you belong. I hope you'll learn a lesson from this misadventure, you young vagabonds, and never try to escape your duties again, or, by the bones of Thor's goats, you'll have old Hafthorr to answer to." He glared ferociously, and Brak wished he could shrivel himself completely out of sight.
Pehr looked at Brak and made covert signs for Brak to say something. Brak could barely swallow, but at last he found the courage to clear his throat with a nervous cough. "So you're going to send us back toЧto the old man at Vapnaford? Tomorrow, I suppose?"
Hafthorr nodded his head emphatically. "You'll all thank me for it one day when you realize how truly generous I'm being. And since you don't look as if you appreciate the idea and may be entertaining more notions of running away again, I'm going to lock all of you in the kitchen tonight. Ha, we'll see if you're clever enough to escape from clever escapers like ourselves."

Chapter 5

Brak looked at Ingvold, but she was busily using her bread to capture the last of the drippings on her plate. "But let us explain," he protested in a voice that threatened to quaver at any instant. "This man in the black cloak is no friend or master of ours. I'm sure you think we're lying, but he's an enemy who wishes to do usЧhe wants to kill us, is what I'm trying to say."
"And so would I if my thralls all ran away from me," Hafthorr replied indignantly. He waggled his knife in Brak's face. "I can tell you're one of those fellows who is afraid of work. Lazy, that's what you are, and if you belonged to me, I'd soon set you straight with short rations and long hours of hard work. You'd thank me for it later, I'm sure you would. Work is a man's friend, young fellow, and the sooner you learn it, the better off you'll be."
Brak did not dare utter another word. He shrank back as Hafthorr forcibly stabbed another potato off the platter, bestowing a fierce glare upon his three guests.
"Now see here, you don't understand," Pehr began to bluster. "My father isЧ" He quailed suddenly under the united scowls of the outlaws.
"Probably very angry, too, at you for running away," Tostig finished. "Nothing is worse than the crime of ingratitude in a person of your low position. You owe your master for every bite of bread you eat and for every fire where you warm your ungrateful backside. You owe him everything."
"Oh, bother on the lot of you," Ingvold said rudely, and Brak was so shocked he couldn't help making a loud gasp of fright. Ingvold faced the circle of disapproving scowls. "You've all had your sport with frightening us, so you can stop threatening to send us back to Myrkjartan. Tostig, you're a clever storyteller, but I simply don't believe you carried on such a cozy chat with Myrkjartan, or he probably would have cut your throat on the spot. We're not runaway Scipling thralls, and if you hadn't begun to badger us so soon, we might have told you earlier who we really are. I must add, if you fellows plan to continue posing as Scipling outlaws, it would be wise to avoid passing the meat without touching the platter, winking at the ale to pour it, and lighting pipes without coals. I assure you, real Sciplings would be highly astonished if they could perform such feats."
Hafthorr's face underwent a series of changes, finally arriving at a merry grin. He shrugged apologetically, and the rest of the supposed outlaws gaped at Ingvold in guilty astonishment or chuckled at Hafthorr.
"Do you mean these aren't real outlaws?" Pehr demanded, glaring around the table.
Tostig shifted uncomfortably, squinting at Ingvold. "Tell us first who this relative is you're traveling to see," he commanded.
"My aunt Hrodney, who lives east of here," Ingvold retorted.
Hafthorr said, "One of our own kind has penetrated our disguise. If she knows our aunt Hrodney, that means we are relatives also."
"You must belong to a rather large family," Brak said, still feeling weak from his past fright, and very glad to see the men at the table relaxing their hostile appearances.
"Then you're all Alfar and not outlaws?" Pehr scowled in puzzlement, as if trying to decide if someone was making sport of him, which he more than halfway suspected.
Hafthorr chuckled, once more genial. "Now you've got it. For a Scipling, you're more than half sharp."
"But what are you doing here?" Pehr persisted doggedly. "This is the Scipling realm, isn't it?"
The mead was going around again, with much laughing and talking. Hafthorr answered, "Hafthorsstead is an Alfar outpost. We're here merely to observe things that come and go and to put a spoke in Myrkjartan's wheel if we can do it prudently. Since we've lost so many hill forts to the east, Hjordis has been creeping into the Scipling realm. I wouldn't be surprised if there are dozens of Dokkalfar poking and prying and spying around the main halls of the Sciplings to see how rich they are, and whether they'll fight very hard for their hold on this troublesome island, and how many armies they have."
Pehr slapped his sword and exclaimed, "Well, I'll fight the Dark Alfar for Thorstensstead! I'm supposed to be the next chieftain there, and it shall be mine if I have to wrestle it from Myrkjartan himself."
"That may be exactly what you'll have to do if these draugar keep fighting," someone said dolefully. "Hark at that wind! I hope the livestock are secure."
At that moment a gust of wind came shrieking down the fell, rushing across the hay meadows to whistle around the corners of the stables before pouncing upon the house. It rattled the shutters on the windows and tried to draw the fire up the chimney with a whistling roar.
"The Myrkriddir!" Brak gasped. "They've found us again!"
The Alfar quickly drained their cups and began inspecting their weapons. Tostig and Hafthorr exchanged a glance.
Tostig leaned across the table to eye Brak, who was pale and obviously on the point of diving under the table. "Now what would the Myrkriddir of Myrkjartan be wanting with the likes of you, my fine fellow?"
"Never you mind about Brak and Pehr," Ingvold snapped. "I'm taking them to Hrodney, and you need know nothing more."
"High and mighty, aren't we?" Tostig cried. "Are you a princess or a chieftain's daughter, to order us around like that? You don't pass very well as a servant girl with that haughty voice and your dainty little nose in the air. Why don't you tell us who you really are?"
Ingvold was about to reply angrily when a thunder of hooves came sweeping toward the house. Gathering storm clouds had blackened the twilight sky, and the wind was chilly and restless. Brak flinched at the sudden stab of lightning that bathed the hay meadows in shuddering white and illuminated the flying mass of horsemen pounding toward the house. Brak had only a horrified, momentary glimpse of spectral faces, bare, gleaming bone, and tatters of cloth before the horsemen were upon them. Hooves clattered on the roof of the porch and drummed across the turf roof. Brak cringed from the enormity of such a stunt, and Pehr, ducking under the table, indignantly exclaimed, "That's impossible! They can't do that!" He sneezed at the dust sifting down from the turves overhead.