"Dragonlance - Deathgate 1 - Dragon Wing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragonlance)

The battle dragon swooped low over the castle. A score of rope cables, glistening in the torchlight, snaked through the air. Men leapt from the dragon's back, slid down the cables, and landed in the courtyard. Everyone could see the silver insignia of the King's Own glittering on their panoply, and the crowd muttered ominously.

Swiftly the soldiers deployed, clearing a large area in the center of the courtyard and placing themselves in position around it. Shields in their left hands, spears in their right, they stood at relaxed attention, facing outward, refusing to meet anyone's eyes or answer anyone's questions.

A lone dragonrider appeared. Flying over the gate, the small, swift-flying dragon hovered over the circle cleared for it, wings holding it poised in the air while it scanned the area in which it would land. By now its rider's elegant livery, flashing red and golden in the flaring torchlight, could be easily recognized. The people caught their breath and glanced at each other with questioning eyes.

The riding dragon settled to the ground, wings trembling, its flanks heaving. Flecks of saliva dripped from its fanged mouth. Jumping from the saddle, the rider cast a swift glance around the courtyard. He was clad in the short gold-trimmed cape and red flared coat of a king's courier, and the people waited in breathless anticipation to hear the news he had to impart.

Almost everyone expected it to be a declaration of war against the elves of Tribus; some of the knights were already looking about for their squires so that they might be ready to muster at a moment's notice. It was, therefore, with considerable shock that those standing in the courtyard saw the courier raise a hand gloved in the finest soft and supple leather and point at the block.

"Is that Hugh the Hand you are about to execute?" he shouted in a voice as soft and supple as his gloves.

The wizard strode across the courtyard and was admitted into the circle through the ranks of the King's Own.

"What if it is?" answered Magicka warily.
"If it is Hugh the Hand, I command you, in the name of the king, to deliver him to me-alive," said the courier.

The wizard glowered at the man darkly. Ke'lith's knights looked questioningly in Magicka's direction, awaiting his orders.

Until recently, the Volkarans had never known a king. In the world's very early days, Volkaran had been a penal colony established by the inhabitants of the main continent Uylandia. The famous prison at Yreni held murderers and thieves; exiles, whores, and various other social embarrassments were shipped off to the surrounding isles of Providence, Pitrin's Exile, and the three Djerns. Life was hard on these outer isles, and over the centuries, the isles produced a hard people. Each isle was ruled by various clans; each clan's lord spent his time either beating assaults off his own lands or attacking those of his neighbors on Uylandia.

Thus divided, the humans were easy prey for the stronger, wealthier elven nation of Tribus. The elves gobbled the humans up piecemeal, and for almost forty cycles, the elves ruled both Uylandia and the Volkaran Isles. Their iron grip on the humans had come to an end twenty cycles earlier, when a chieftain of the strongest clan on Volkaran married the matriarch of the strongest clan on Uylandia. Rallying their people, Stephen of Pitrin's Exile and Anne of Winsher formed an army that overthrew the elves and hurled them-some of them literally-off the isle.

When Uylandia and Volkaran were free of occupation, Stephen and Anne proclaimed themselves king and queen, murdered their most dangerous rivals, and, though it was rumored that they were now intriguing against each other, the two continued to be the most powerful and feared force in the realm. In the old days, Magicka would have simply ignored the command, carried out the execution, and done away with the courier if the man proved obstinate. Now, standing in the shadow cast by the pitch-black wings of the battle dragon, the wizard was reduced to quibbling.

"Hugh the Hand is the murderer of our lord, Rogar of Ke'lith, and it is the king's own law that we take his life in punishment."

"His Majesty fully approves and applauds your excellent and swift execution of justice within his kingdom," said the courier with a graceful bow, "and he regrets that he must interfere, but there is a royal warrant out for the arrest of the man known as Hugh the Hand. He is wanted for questioning in regard to a conspiracy against the state-a matter which takes precedence over all local affairs. Everyone knows," added the courier, looking directly into Magicka's eyes, "that this assassin has had dealings with the elflords of Tribus."

The wizard knew, of course, that Hugh hadn't had dealings with an elflord on Tribus. The wizard also knew, at that instant, that the courier knew this as well. And if the courier knew this, then he might know a number of other things-such as how Rogar of Ke'lith had truly met his death. Caught in his own net, Magicka flopped and floundered.

"Let me see the warrant," he demanded.

Nothing, it seemed, would give the king's courier greater pleasure than producing the king's warrant for Magicka's viewing. Thrusting his hand into a leather pouch that hung from the dragon's saddle, the courier withdrew a scrollcase. He removed the scroll inside and handed it to the wizard, who pretended to study it. The warrant would be in order. Stephen wasn't one to make a mistake like that. There was the name, Hugh the Hand, and it was sealed with the Winged Eye that was Stephen's device. Gnawing his lip until it was raw and bleeding, Magicka could do nothing but cast his people a much-suffering glance that said he had tried but greater powers were at work here. Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed coldly in silent, ungracious acquiescence.

"His Majesty thanks you," said the courier, smiling. "You, Captain!" He gestured. Gareth-his face carefully expressionless, though he, too, had followed the unspoken as well as the spoken-came up to stand behind the wizard. "Bring me the prisoner. Oh, and I'll need a fresh dragon for my return trip. King's business," he added.

Those two words-king's business-could commandeer anything from a castle to a flagon of wine, a roast boar to a regiment. Those who disobeyed did so at their extreme peril. Gareth looked at Magicka. The wizard literally shook with rage, but said nothing- merely gave a swift, short nod-and the knight left to obey the command.

The courier deftly retrieved the parchment, rerolled it, and slid it back into its scrollcase. As he glanced about idly, awaiting Gareth's return with the prisoner, his gaze alighted on the bier. Instantly his face assumed an expression of deep sorrow.

"Their Majesties extend their sympathy to Lady Rogar. If they can be of service, her ladyship can be assured that she has only to call upon them."

"Her ladyship will be most grateful," said Magicka sourly.

The courier, smiling once again, began to slap his gloves impatiently against his thigh. Gareth was leading the prisoner past the King's Own, but there was as yet no sign of a fresh mount. "About that dragon-"

"Here, my lord, take this one," cried the old stablemaster eagerly, offering the reins of the lord's dragon to the messenger.