"Dragonlance - Kang's Regiment 01 - The Doom Brigade - Margaret Weis & Don Perrin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragonlance)

"You're a dragon-spawned soldier," Slith said, nodding wisely. "You yearn for the battlefield. You yearn to command troops in a life-or-death struggle, a struggle for glory."
Kang took a sip of his ale, pondered this. "No, I don't think so. I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. None of us knows how long we're going to live, but it won't be forever. What will remain after we're gone? Nothing. We're the last of our race."
Slith laughed. "Sir, you can be the most depressing bastard I've ever met! What does it matter what happens after we die? We won't be around to know the difference!"
"I'll drink to thatf" Kaftg said moodily, and took a long pull on his ale.
Slith waited a few moments to see if his commander was going to cheer up, but Kang remained stubbornly immersed in gloom. He stared into his ale, and watched the flies buzz around the rag on which he'd wiped the rotten egg.
"See yoa for dinner, sir," Slith said, and left his com-mander to his black mood.
Kang put away his armor and harness. By force of habit, he cleaned his already clean sword before re-sheathing it and hung the belt on a hook near the door.
He went to bed, to rest through the heat of the day, the heat that was so very unusual for midsummer in the mountains. He did not sleep, but lay, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Slith had a point.
"What does it matter after we die?" Kang asked the buzzing flies. "What indeed?"

Chapter Three


The four dwarves ran along a hunting trail that zigzagged through the tinder-dry meadow grass. Though it was early morning still, the sun beat on their iron helms like Reorx's hammer. Three were wearing leather armor and heavy boots and sweating profusely. The fourth was clad in a belted tunic, breeches and soft cloth slippers, known disparagingly among the dwarves as "kender shoes," because, supposedly, they permitted the wearer to move as stealthily as a kender. This fourth dwarf was relatively cool and quite comfortable.
The dwarves had done well for themselves on the raid that morning. One held a small lamb over his neck, grasping it by its legs. Two carried a large crate between them. The fourth dwarf carried nothing, which also accounted for the fact that he was enjoying the walk.
One of the dwarves hefting the heavy, rattling crate noticed this singularity. Huffing and puffing from the heat and his exertion, the dwarf complained.
"Hey, Selquist, what are we? Your pack horses? Come here and give us a hand."
"Now, Auger," replied the dwarf, fixing his companion with a stern eye, "you know that I have a bad back."
"I know you can crawl through windows without any trouble," Auger grumbled. "And you can move pretty fast when you have to, like when that draconian came at us with the club. I never see you hobbling around or crippled up."
"That's because I take care of myself," said Selquist.
"He does that, all right," grumbled another of the dwarves to his companion.
Any well-traveled person on Ansalon could have told at a glance that these were hill dwarves, as opposed to their cousins the mountain dwarves. At least, the traveled person could have said that about three of the dwarves. They had nondescript brown hair, light brown skin and the ruddy cheeks that come of being raised from childhood up on the healthful properties of nut-ale.
The fourth dwarf, whose name was Selquist (his mother, somethingof a romantic, had named him after an elven hero in a popular bard's tale; no one is quite certain why), might have given the traveler pause. He appeared to fit into no specific category. His domes were similar to those of his fellows, a shade less tidy, perhaps.
He wore a ring, rather battered, of a metal that he claimed was silver. This dwarfЧyoungish, considered lean among his stout fellowsЧalso said the ring was magic. No one had ever witnessed any evidence of this, although all would admit that Selquist was quite good at performing at least one trick: making other people's personal possessions disappear.
"Besides, Mortar, my friend," Selquist added, "I, too, am carrying somethingЧa most valuable treasure. If my hands aren't free, how will I defend it in case we're attacked?"
"Oh, yeah?" Mortar demanded. "What?"
Selquist exhibited with pride an amulet he wore around his neck.
"Big deal," said Pestle, Mortar's brother. "A penny on a chain. Probably worth less than a penny. Bet it's fool's gold, like those gully dwarves tried to palm off on us in PaxTharkas."
"It is not!" Selquist returned indignantly.
Just to make certain, when the others weren't looking, he slowed his running long enough to take a good look at it.
The amulet was made of metal, but it wasn't a coin, at least not like any coin Selquist had seen, and he'd seen quite a few in his lifetime. It was shaped like a pentagram. Each point of the pentagram had a dragon's head inside it. The five-headed dragon identified it as a relic of the Dark Queen, making it worth quite a bit to those who traded in souvenirs from the War of the Lance. He had found the amulet while rummaging around in a draconian's footlocker.
"In fact," he said to himself, "it would be worth a whole lot more if it turned out to be magic!"
At that, a rather unpleasant thought occurred to Selquist. Hastily, he snatched off the amulet and thrust it in the money pouch hanging from his belt.
"The last thing I need is to be cursed by the Dark Queen for appropriating her jewelry," he muttered. Increasing his speed, he hurried after his companions. "I'll pass that along as an extra benefit to the buyer."
The four crossed over a low ridge and were at last able to slow their pace. It was unlikely the draconians would have chased them in this heat, but the dwarves were not taking chances. They could now see the smoke of the village cooking fires. They could hear the cheers of the people, welcoming the warriors home.
The main body of raiders had already returned, battered and bruised, but in good spirits. The entire
population of the village of Celebundin was gathered at the meeting hall to greet the returning heroes.
These four, who lagged behind, were missing the celebration, but that didn't bother them. They wouldn't have been included anyway. In fact, there were those in the village who would have celebrated if these four hadn't come back.
Selquist and his party deliberately avoided the crowd, heading for Selquist's house, which was located on the outskirts of the village. Selquist unlocked the three locks on the doorЧhe was of a suspicious natureЧand entered. His three assistants clomped in behind him and dumped the crate on the floor. He shut the door, struck a match to light an oil lamp.
Auger set down the lamb and stood gazing at it hungrily. Bleating plaintively, the lamb piddled on the floor.
"Oh, thanks, Auger! Thanks loads!" Selquist glared around. "Just what we need to improve the decor around here, the pungent smell of lamb piss. Why in the name of Reorx did you bring that beast inside the house? Take it out and put it in the pen, then get something to clean that up. You two, open me crate, and let's see what we have."
"Steel coins," said Pestle hopefully.
"Jewels," said his brother Mortar, working on the lock.
The lock gave with a snap.
"Shovels," said Selquist, peering down. "Also picks and a saw. Come now," he added, when he saw the brothers scowl in disappointment. "You didn't really expect we'd find a king's ransom stashed in a draconian shed? Those scaly louts wouldn't be hanging around this god-forsaken valley if they had money. Heck no. They'd be whooping it up in Sanction."
"What are they doing here, if comes to mat?" Pestle demanded. He was in a bad mood.
"I know," said Mortar, looking very solemn. "They've come here to die."
"Balderdash!" Selquist glanced around to make certain they were alone. He lowered his voice. "I'll tell you why they're here. They're on a mission from the Dark Queen."
"Truly?" Pestle asked, awed.