"John DeChancie - Castle 08 - Bride of the Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dechancie John)

Rance was somewhat nonplused. He sheathed his sword. "Well, I'm sorry. When you came at me, I-"
"All I wanted to do was take your mount into the stable for some water and food and a nice rubdown.
But no-o-o-o. It's Mr. Touchy! Mr. Hands-Off! Mr. Macho Guy!"
"See here," Rance began. "You-"
An armored rider came out of a side street, his steed foaming at the bit. The horse stopped, reared.
"Mortal," came a deep, echoing voice emanating from behind a visored helm, "prepare to meet thy
doom." Rance's sword again hissed from its scabbard. "Prepare to meet this, spirit!"
"Your sword hisses nicely," the specter observed, drawing his own weapon.
It was the biggest, wickedest blade that Rance had ever seen. Rance swallowed hard.
"Make acquaintance with my sword, Just Avenger," the armored eidolon said. "How call you yours?"
Rance drew himself up. "The name of my sword," he said, holding his blade high, "is Bruce."
"What?"
Rance's shoulders slumped. "Uh, you heard me."
The fearful apparition laughed derisively. "Bruce?"
"I call him Brucie. That's his name."
There was general merriment. The demon with the still-gushing stump stood there giggling along with the
rest. " `Brucie'?" the warrior-demon sneered. "What kind of name is that to strike fear into the heart of
your enemy?"
"I got it secondhand," Rance muttered. "That was the name given the sword by its maker, and in order to
take advantage of all the magical stuff you have to invoke it by its name, and that's its name. Bruce. That's
all there is to it."
"Well, it's ridiculous!"
"Well, I'm sorry," Rance said with some hauteur.
"I suppose your dagger is named Murray. And the horse? Butterfly Love Moon? Or perhaps Tittybum
Up-your-arse-on-the-Leeward-Side?"
The innkeeper especially loved this. Convulsed, he rolled on the ground repeating "Butterfly Love Moon"
over and over. R
ance boiled. "Right, that tears it. Laugh if you must, but you'll be laughing out of the other side of your
helm when you get a taste of Brucie's cold steel."
"Oh, steel-tasting time, everyone!" the handless one minced. Then, an aside: "I hear the real pros spit it
out and go on to the next sample."
The spectral mount suddenly charged, its rider's sword swishing like a scythe.
Rance backstepped his mount, jerked the reins to the right, then heeled into a canter. He swung and
blocked his attacker's slashing swipe. Then his mount broke into a gallop down the middle of the street.
The dust became a mire, his mount's hooves sinking to the first joint. The animal whinnied piteously,
struggling to disengage itself from the muck.
The mire did not seem to impede Rance's attacker. The dark rider turned, reared again, and bore down.
Rance fended off another onslaught, then dismounted and led the beast out of the mud, which now began
crystallizing into dry crackling.
He remounted in time to ward off another savage blow. This time he followed up and decapitated the
rider. The helmeted head fell to earth and shattered like a glass sphere.
The town faded, its new-ancient gables blending with the gray sky. Soon the phantom hamlet was no
more, and the hillside was clear again.
But a faint voice lingered. "Ooo, talk about rough trade . . . "
He sheathed his sword and continued down the slope. Big rocks blocked his path, and his mount
scrabbled around them down to level ground. The valley of the Zinites was nearer now, but darkness
hovered at the edge of the world. He decided to make camp.
The night was long. Voices wailed in the distance, naming the unnameable, invoking powers of darkness.
Greenish mist choked the valley below. Vague shapes moved against the night sky. Rance thought they
were dark clouds, but was not sure.