"Denning, Troy - Forgotten Realms - Spellfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

"Good lass," Gorstag said warmly, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
Shandril smiled back at him through the hair that had fallen over her face again. Well, at least someone appreciated her! She hurried off down the well-worn, winding path of beaten earth and exposed tree-roots to the Glaemril, to draw staggeringly heavy buckets of water for the kitchen. Tonight would be a busy night. If Lureene did not bed with one of the travelers, she'd have much to tell as Shandril hissed questions in the darkness of the loft: who came from where, and where they were bound, and on what business. News, too, and gossipЧall the color and excitement of the world outside, the world that Shandril had never seen.
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Gratefully she waded out into the cool water, her bare feet avoiding the unseen stones with long practice as she filled the old wooden buckets. Then, grunting with the effort, she heaved them up onto the bank and stood for a moment, hands on hips, looking up and down the cool, green passage of the stream through Deepingdale's woods. She could not stay long, or swim or bathe and get herself wetter than she was, but she could look... and dream. Past her feet, the GlaemrilЧDeeping Stream, some called it-rushed laughingly over rocks to join the great river Ashaba that drained the northern dales and then turned east to slip past rolling lands, full of splendid people and wondrous things, lands that she would see, someday!
"Soon," she said firmly, as she climbed from the stream and took up the worn wooden yoke. A heave, a momentary stagger under the great weight and she began the long climb up through the trees back to the inn. Soon.
Adventurers were staying at The Rising Moon this night; a proud, splendid group of men by the name of the Company of the Bright Spear. Lean and dangerous in their armor and ready weaponry, they laughed often and loudly, wore gold rings on their hands and at their ears, and drank much wine. Gorstag had been busy with them all afternoon, for as he told Shandril with a wink as he strode down the cellar stairs in search of old and cobweb-covered bottles of wine, "It pays to keep adventurers happy, and it can be downright dangerous if you do not." They would be in the taproom by now, Lureene already flirting and flouncing saucily as she brought them wine and strong cider and aromatic tobacco. Shandril promised herself she'd watch them from the passage, while Korvan was busy with the pastry.
Shandril kicked the rusted pot by the back door so that the cook would hear and let her into the kitchen. The chain rattled as Korvan threw up the half-bar and snarled, "Get in!" The expected pinching and slap came as she staggered across the uneven floor with the water. "Don't spill any of that, mind! There are dishes waiting, sluggard! Move that shapely little behind of yours!" Korvan rumbled, ending with his horrible, barking laugh. Shandril set her teeth grimly under the yoke. Someday she'd be free of this!
Х 14*
SPELLFIBE
The evening grew cool, as it often did in the dale after a hot day, mist gathering in the trees. The Rising Moon's taproom filled up quickly. The townsfolk of Highmoon had done business with the Company of the Bright Spear, and the veterans had come to take their measure and perhaps swap some tales. Shandril managed one quick peek at the taproom and saw the company holding court, all boisterous Jests and laughter, at the central tables. A scattering of local veterans sat nearer the bar, and at the small tables along the wall were other visitors. Shandril noticed two lady adventurers close to the bar. Noticed, and stared.
They were beautiful. Tall, slimЧand free to do as they pleased. Shandril gazed at them in wonder from the shadows. Both of the women wore leather and plate half-armor without color or blazon. Long, plain scabbards at their hips held swords and daggers that looked to have seen heavy use. Their cloaks were also plain, but of the finest cloth and make. Shandril was surprised at the soft beauty of the two and the quiet grace of their movementsЧno red-faced oxen, these. But what struck her most was their calm self-assurance. They were what she longed to be. Shandril stared at them from the darkness of the passageЧuntil Korvan came out of the kitchen with a roar. He plucked Shandril up by grabbing a fistful of tunic and hauling roughly and carried her down the passage and into the kitchen.
"Do /stand and gawk? If I did, what would the guests eat then?' was all Korvan said, in a fierce whisper with his stub-bled face an inch from hers, and Shandril feared for her life. If there was one thing Korvan cared about, it was his cooking. For a wild moment, as he thrust a bowl of potatoes at her, Shandril considered attacking her tormentor with a kitchen knife, but that wasn't the sort of 'adventure' she wanted.
But as she washed and cleaned out three hares under Kor-van's hot glare, Shandril knew that she'd had more than enough of this treatment. She was going to do somethingto get out of here. Tonight.
"A good place, I've heard," said the mage Marimmar in the
ED GREENWOOD
last blue light of dusk, as their ponies carried them down through the trees toward the lanterns of Deepingdale. " Mind you say nothing of our business or destination, boy. If asked, you know nothing. You are not even all that interested in Myth Drannor?'
Narm Tamaraith nodded In weary silence, and his master turned on him sharply in the gloom. "Do you hear, boy?
Answerf
"Aye, Lord, tЧnodded, not thinking you would not see. 1 beg full pardon. I will say nothing of Myth Drannorf' Nairn's master, Marimmar "the Magnificent" (Narm had heard him called other things occasionally, but never to his face), snorted.
" 'Not thinking*! That's the problem, boy, too much of the time. Well, think! Deep but sharp, boy, deep but sharpЧ dont let the world around escape your notice, lest it sticks a blade in your ribs while your wits are off somewhere considering Xult's Seven SigUs! Got it?"
"Aye, Lord," Narm replied, sighing inwardly. It was to be one of those evenings. Even if this inn was nice, he'd scarcely have the chance to enjoy it, with Marimmar holding forth on all of Nairn's many shortcomings. Narm could see now why the Mage Most Magnificent had so readily agreed to take on an apprentice. Marimmar needed someone around to belabor, and no doubt few stayed long to listen. His master's art was good, though; Narm knew enough of magic to be certain of that. But Marimmar certainly knew how to ruin the delight and enthusiasm of any adventureЧ or even daily chores, for that matter. Narm turned into the yard of The Rising Moon, pronouncing silent curses upon his master. Maybe there would be pretty girls inside. . . .
After the hares and four pheasants and too many carrots and potatoes to count, Shandril stole away for another look at the inn's guests. The company of adventurers might talk of their deeds, or even show off some treasure. Moreover, she might learn who the two ladies were. Flitting barefoot down the passage in her greasy tunic and apron, Shandril peered out cautiously into the noise and bustle.
SPELLFTRE
Across the smoky taproom sat an imperious man in fine gray robes, a thin pipe between his fat fingers as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man. This one was handsome, even in nondescript gray robes that were too large for him. He was dark-haired and slim, with a very serious face. His eyes were intent on the cup of wine he clasped on the table before him. Shandril was about to turn away when suddenly his gaze met hers.
Oh, his eyes! Belying that stern face, they were dancing. They met hers merrily and did not ridicule her wild-tousled, long blonde hair and greasy garb, but winked at her as an equalЧone, moreover, lucky to be in the shadows and not facing a steady barrage of questions.
Shandril flushed and tossed her headЧand yet could not go. Snared by his gaze, by being regarded as aЧperson and not a servant, Shandril stood watching, mute, hands clenching in the folds of her apron. Abruptly, the youth's gaze was jerked away, as a hooked fish is pulled from the water regardless of its will to stay, by the impatient snapping of the older man's fingers.
Shandril stood alone in the shadows, as always, trembling with excitement and hope. These folk who traveled about the world outside were no greater than herself. Oh, they were rich enough, and had companions and business of import, and experienceЧbut she could be one of them. Someday. If ever she dared. Shandril could look no longer. Bitterly she turned back to the kitchen, railing inwardly at the fear that always held her there, despite the endless pots and scalding water, despite Korvan.
"Get in!" Korvan rumbled, red-faced, as she came to the kitchen. "There's onions to chop, and I can't do it ail, you know!" Shandril nodded absently as she walked toward the chopping board at the back of the kitchen. Korvan's bruising, pinching fingers as she passed, and the roar of uneven laughter that followed, were expected now; she hardly noticed. The knife rose and fell in her hands, twinkling. Korvan stared at her. Shandril had never before hummed happily while chopping onions.
EDGHEENWOOD
It was hot and close in the low-beamed room. Narm blinked wearily. Marimmar showed signs of neither weariness nor relaxation in the cozy warmth of this place. I suppose all inns are the same, more or less, Narm thought, but to take thisЧhis gaze strayed again around the noisy camaraderie of the roomЧall for granted!
But before Marimmar snapped at him to mind his studies and not the antics of drunken locals, Narm noticed that the girl who had stared at him from the dark passage across the room was gone. The darkness there didn't seem right without her. She belonged in that spot, somehow. And yetЧ
"Will you heed?" Marimmar snapped, really angry now. "What has hold of your senses, boy? One drink and this? You'll have a short life indeed, if you gad about like this when you're in the wild! Some creatures would look upon you as a quick meal. And they'll not wait for you to notice them before they feed!"
Obediently, Narm faced his master and dragged his attention back to queries on casting spells: casting in the dark, casting when the proper components were lacking, casting (Marimmar added acidly) when drunk. Again, Narm's head swam with the picture, his forever now, of the girl gazing into his eyes from the shadows. He almost looked to see if she was there, but checked under his master's gaze.
One of the adventurers bad chanced to spill a platter of food, so Shandril was there when it happened. The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number, led by an important, square-bearded, young giant of a man who was fast becoming too drunk to keep his seat. His name was Burlane. Gold gleamed and winked in the firelight at his ears and his throat, upon his fingers, and at his belt. He belched and chuckled and reached vaguely for his tankard again.
Tb his left sat a real dwarf, the worn and baggy leather of his breeches not a foot from Shandril's bent bead as she scrubbed and scraped beneath the table. The breeches smelled of woodsmoke. The dwarf was called Delg, "the Fearless," as one of his companions had added mockingly, to everyone's amusement. Delg wore a dagger strapped to his
leg just above his boot; its hilt shone enticingly inches from Shandril's face. Something rose up within her and, trembling a little, yet with infinite care, she reached out. . .
One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with a gray-white beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor. Shandril had heard it before, but it was still fascinating. She listened intently, scarcely daring to breathe, as she took hold and pulled ever-so-gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and heavy in her hand.
"... So for many long years the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the woods still, not a week's ride north of here. Waiting for the braveЧand the foolishЧ to try for it, for it is guarded by devils... and worse."
The old man paused, his audience intent upon his every word, and raised his tankard. His free hand slid across his chest like a striking snake.
One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face, was passing behind him, and old Ghondarrath grunted and set down his tankard. He raised his other hand, and all could see the adventurer's wrist clasped within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath's purse.
"Well," Ghondarrath said dryly, "look what I've found." The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire. No one moved. Shandril clutched the dagger fiercely in excitement. She knew she should creep away quickly, lest the dwarf reach for his blade . . . and yet, she couldn't miss this!
There was a flurry of movement; the thief whipped a slim dagger out of a sheath at the back of his neck with his free hand, stabbing downward. Ghondarrath jerked him coolly sideways, and he crashed helplessly forward onto the table. Ghondarrath's free hand came down upon the back of the thiefs neck with a solid crash, like a tree falling. "Dead?" asked one of the other dalemen in a hoarse whisper. For a second more there was silence, and then with a roar the Company of the Bright Spear was on their feet.
"Get him!"
"Sword the graybeard!"
*!г>*
ED GREENWOOD
"He's killed Lynxal!"
The dwarf nearly took Shandril's nose off as he kicked back his chair and sprang to his feet, but Shandril jerked back just in time. Chairs overturned and men shouted. Adventure, she thought ruefully as she scuttled on hands and knees beneath the table, was upon her at last.
"They'll kill you, Ghondar!" said one of the old warriors, face white. Beside him, Ghondarrath stood defiant, his chair raised before him in his hands. He had no other weapon.
"I was never one to back down," he said roughly. "I know no other way. Better to die by the blade, Tempus willing, than grow old shamed and craven."