"Deborah Doyle - Circle of Magic 02 - The Secret of The Tower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doyle Debra)

It wouldn't even take a lightning bolt, just a flash and a bang and these knights would be running for their
lives. But I gave my word.
A buffet from the clenched fist of his latest tormentor almost knocked Randal off his feet. He clenched his
own fists tighter, feeling the pain in his scarred palm and welcoming it as a distraction.
One of the other knights slapped Randal so hard the youth's eyes watered, and his ears rang with the
blow.
I could take him, thought Randal through the racket in his head.
I'm not banned from fighting from using steel. But if I knock him down, his friends will probably kill me.
A boot hit Randal in the knee. He collapsed, and this time he stayed on the ground. He rolled into a ball
on the packed dirt, hoping to protect himself from serious injury while the group of knights worked off
their bad temper.
The next kick did not land. Instead, a deep and somehow familiar voice called out, "Let him go."
I've heard that voice somewhere, thought Randal. So, it seemed, had the ones who'd been bullying him.
He sensed them drawing back away from him, and then heard one of them-the young knight who had
started the game-ask in a surly tone, "Who dares command me?"
"Sir Walter of Doun," said the newcomer. "Who asks?"
"Sir Reginald de Haul Desert," said the first knight stiffly, like a dog backing off from its prey when it sees
the pack leader coming. "I have heard of you, sir."
And so have I, thought Randal miserably, pressing his head into his knees where he lay in the dust of the
inn yard. His cousin Walter was the last person in Brecelande he wanted to see at the moment. Even
getting kicked senseless by Reginald and his friends would have been preferable.
"And I have heard of you, sir." Walter's voice was courteous, but unyielding.
There was a pause, and then another voice from the circle around Randal said, "This one isn't worth
dirtying my boots on. I'm going back inside."
From the sounds, Randal knew that the others had left with him. Walter spoke again out of the darkness
above Randal.
"Here, now, boy. Are you hurt?"
Randal stayed curled up on the ground and shook his head. Maybe his cousin would go away. But no ...
Lord Alyen and Sir Palamon had always taught that a true knight took the less fortunate under his
protection, and Walter seemed intent on living up to the ideal.
"Let me look at you, boy. Is this blood on your face?"
Randal shook his head. "It doesn't matter, my lord," he muttered.
Then he realized that his cousin wasn't going to go away as long as he lay there on the packed dirt.
He tried to stand, but the last kick to his knee had been too much for him, and he faltered as he came
upright.
A strong arm caught him before he could fall. Randal felt the limber muscle beneath the heavy chain mail
and a linen surcoat. Walter had grown over the last three years from a gangly boy into a young man of
almost twenty. Randal looked away, still hoping not to be recognized.
"Here," said Walter. "Let me give you a hand."
He slipped an arm under Randal's and began helping the young wizard limp back toward the lighted inn.
Randal muttered something he hoped sounded like thanks; his voice hadn't finished changing when he'd
left Doun for the Schola, so maybe Walter wouldn't remember him well enough to recognize his voice
and accent.
But Walter had never been stupid. He paused, and the idle kindness in his voice changed to genuine
curiosity. "What's your name, boy?"
A wizard never tells anything but the truth, thought Randal, despairing. Lies and magic don't work in the
same mouth.
"Well, answer me," Walter said, more sharply this time. "What's your name?"
"Randal," Randal said, almost in a whisper. Then, more strongly, "Randal of Doun, cousin."