"01 - Wizard's Bane (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Rick)

Moira studied the sky. "Not more than one day," she pronounced. "Summer storms are seldom longer than that."
"Great," Wiz grumbled.
"It will be uncomfortable," she agreed, "but it is a blessing too. The rain will deaden our trail to those things which track by scent." She looked up at the leaden, lowering sky.
"Also, dragons do not like flying through rain."
"Thank heaven for small favors."
Their breakfast was a handful of dried fruit, devoured as they walked. They picked their way through a gap in the ruined wall and struck off into the forest.
It rained all day. Sometimes it was just a fine soft mist wafting from the lowering gray skies. Sometimes it pelted down in huge face-stinging drops. When it was at its worst they sought shelter under a tree or overhanging rock. Mostly it just rained and they just walked.
At first it wasn't too bad. The rain was depressing but their wool cloaks kept out the water and the footing was. However as the downpour continued, water seeped through the tightly woven cloaks and gradually soaked them to the skin. The ground squished beneath their feet. The carpet of wet leaves turned as slippery and treacherous as ice. Where there were no leaves there was mud, or wet grass nearly as slippery as the leaves.
At every low spot they splashed through puddles or forded little streamlets. Wiz's running shoes became soaked and squelched at every step. Moira's boots weren't much better.
Wiz lost all sense of time and direction. His entire world narrowed down to Moira's feet in front of him, the rasp of his breath and the chill trickle down his back. He plodded doggedly along, locked in his own little sphere of misery. Unbalanced by the weight of his pack, he slipped and fell repeatedly on the uneven ground.
Moira wasn't immune. She was also thoroughly soaked and she slipped and slid almost as much as he did. By the time they stopped for a mid-afternoon rest they were drenched and muddy from falling.
Unmindful of the soggy ground, they threw themselves down under a huge pine tree and sprawled back against the dripping trunk. For once Moira seemed as out of breath as Wiz.
Under other circumstancesЧsay as a picture on someone's wallЧthe forest might have been beautiful. The big old trees towered around them, their leaves washed clean and brilliant green. The rain and mist added a soft gray backdrop and the landscape reminded Wiz of a Japanese garden. There was no sound but the gentle drip of water from the branches and, off in the distance, the rushing chuckle of a stream running over rocks.
Abstractly, Wiz could appreciate the beauty. But only very abstractly. Concretely, he was wet, chilled, miserable, exhausted and hungry.
"Fortuna!" Moira exclaimed. Wiz looked up and saw she had thrown back her cloak and pulled up her skirt, exposing her left leg and a considerable expanse of creamy thigh lightly dusted with freckles.
"Close your mouth and stop gaping," she said crossly. "I hurt my knee when I slipped crossing that last stream."
"How bad is it?" he asked as he scrambled over next to her.
Moira prodded the joint. "Bad enough. It is starting to swell."
"Does it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts!" she said in disgust. "But more importantly I will not be able to walk on it much longer."
"Maybe you should put some ice on it."
Moira glared at him.
"Sorry. I forgot."
"What I need is a healing poultice. I have the materials in my pouch, but they must be boiled and steeped." She looked around and sighed. "We are unlikely to find dry wood anywhere in the Wild Wood this day."
"There are ways of finding dry wood even in a rain."
Moira looked interested. "Do you know how?"
Wiz realized he hadn't the faintest idea. His apartment didn't even have a fireplace and his method of starting a barbeque involved liberal lashings of lighter fluid followed by the application of a propane torch.
"Well, no," he admitted. "But I know you can do it."
"That I know also," Moira snorted. "Were I a ranger or a woodsman I would doubtless know how it is done. But I am neither, nor are you."
"Can't you use magic?"
She shook her head. "I dare not. A spell to light wet wood is obvious and could well betray us. Besides, I threw away my fire lighter."
"What are you going to do?"
"I can walk for a while longer. As we came over the last rise I saw a clearing that looked man-made. We shall have to go in that direction and hope we can find someone who will grant us the use of his fire."
"That's dangerous."
"Less dangerous than using magic, if we are careful. We will approach cautiously and if aught seems amiss we will depart quietly. Now, give me your hand."
Wiz pulled the hedge witch to her feet and for a brief tingling instant their bodies touched down the whole length. Then Moira turned away and started off.
Mercifully, the going was easier in the new direction. There were no hills to climb and the rain gradually slacked off. Moira started to limp, but she refused Wiz's offer of assistance.
As afternoon faded to evening, they threaded their way through the dripping trees until at last Moira motioned Wiz to stop and eased forward carefully.
There, in a rude clearing hacked into the forest, stood a cottage. Some of the felled trees had gone to build the dwelling and some into the split-rail fences around the field. Knee-high stumps still stood among the crops. The cottage was roofed with shingles and the chimney was stone. A thin curl of smoke hung low over the field. It was crude and Spartan, but to Wiz it looked beautiful.
"Hallo the house!" Moira called without entering the clearing.
"Who calls?" came a man's voice from the cabin.
"Two travellers seeking a fire."
"Show yourselves then."
Moira limped into the clearing with Wiz following. Ostentatiously she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak. She nudged Wiz and he did the same.
The householder stepped into the door of the cabin. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a full black beard shot with streaks of gray. Wiz noticed that one hand was out of sight, possibly holding a weapon.
"Advance then, the two of you," he called. Wiz and Moira picked their way across the field to the cabin door.
The man stood in the door, just inside the threshold. "I will not invite you in," he said stolidly. Moira nodded and stepped forward. He backed away to let her enter.
She turned and they both looked at Wiz, but neither Moira nor the householder bade him enter nor made any motion to him. They looked and Wiz looked. Finally he got tired of it and stepped inside.
"Welcome," said the peasant, smiling. "Welcome, Lady." He nodded to Wiz. "Sir."
The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end. There was a ladder leading to the loft and at the loft trap Wiz saw three wide-eyed children peeking down.