"McKenna,.Juliet.E.-.Einarinn.02.-.Swordsman's.Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

service of so great a House.
On that subject, I have a favor to request of you. I continue my researches into
the mysteries of this ancient magic. As you will know from your own nephewТs
fate, this seems to attract the unwelcome attentions of those Elietimm at large
in our lands. While my wizards have many talents, swordsmen they are not. Should
you be willing to grant me the use of your man Ryshad, I can certainly put his
undoubted talents to a use worthy of your House. The more we learn of these
Elietimm and the quicker we do it, the better it will go for both of us.
╗дддл
The High Road toward Cotebridge,
in the Lescari Dukedom of Marlier,
8th of Aft-Spring in the Second Year of Tadriol the Provident
How do you apologize to a grieving mother for not being the man who killed her
son? Another might have AitenТs blood on her hands but I was still more deeply
stained with shame that I had been unable to raise my sword against my friend of
so many years to free him from the foul enchantment that had claimed his mind
and his will, even at that ultimate cost. IТd tried to explain away my failure
but my halting words had hung in the air, twisting awkwardly like crows on a
gibbet. Had that visit to his family all been a dreadful mistake? No; my honor
demanded it, if I were to be able to look myself in the eye as I shaved of a
morning and see a man true to his oath.
Things had improved a little when AitenТs father and brothers had decided
getting soaked in homemade applejack was the best way of honoring his memory.
Everyone had told a story about Aiten and some of them even stayed funny when I
recalled them sober. A sour morning-after with a head as thick as winter fog and
my mouth tasting like a pissed-in boot had been a small price to pay.
My smile faded as I recalled Tirsa, AitenТs sister. A middling brown-haired girl
with soft brown eyes and a pleasant smile; the sort of lass you see by the
handful at markets clean across the Old Empire. Only IТd be able to pick her out
from a festival crowd at a hundred paces, and it would still cut me like a
whetted knife in ten years time, she was so like Aiten to look at.
Remembering the grief in AitenТs motherТs face as she clutched the bundle of his
possessions to her breast, trying to breathe in the last scent of her lost
child, had me sufficiently distracted not to notice the bandits lurking in the
hedgerow. Showers of rain on and off all morning had left the sky as gray as my
mood, and despite it fairing up I still had my hood raised. None of this excuses
my lapse; I certainly should have remembered that the roads in Lescar are always
more dangerous outside the fighting seasons, as perverse as anything else in
that benighted land.
One of the vermin had my bridle before I could gather reins or wits. The
startled horse reared backward, and as I felt its hooves slip in the mire of the
sodden road I kicked my feet free of the irons, barely keeping my own footing as
I leaped clear. Shaking and sweating, the horse snapped at the grabbing hands of
the bandits and escaped up the road, leaving me facing the filthy gang of them.
УPay your toll, pal, and weТll let you pass,Ф the foremost said, grinning
widely, blackened stumps in his slimy gums.
I shook my head at the leader. These sorry discards from some defeated militia
werenТt going to be much of a challenge. They were all gaunt and hungry, matted
and filthy, driven to scavenging like desperate dog-foxes after a long winter of
lean pickings. Still, desperation makes for dangerous men, I reminded myself.