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

I backed down the rutted road a few paces, to draw them out far enough to be
sure there were only four of them. Lescari, cowshit between their ears as well
as between their toes since I could now be certain they had put no one behind me
to cut off any retreat. I could certainly outpace them if I chose to turn tail
and run, but I didnТt fancy trying to make my way through the unknown muddy
byways off the highroad. As my hand moved toward my sword-hilt, parchment in my
pocket crackled, reminding me of my duty to my patronТs orders.
Besides, I didnТt feel inclined to run; DastТs teeth, why should I? I wanted my
horse back too. It was a good beast from MessireТs own stable and IТd been
riding it no more than seven or eight leagues a day to husband its strength.
УSorry, friend. You didnТt say whose authority you had to levy a toll.Ф I kept
my voice neutral.
УThis is all the authority I need!Ф He struck a challenging pose with his
notched sword, evidently aiming to impress in his rusty breastplate fringed with
inadequate chainmail.
His pack grinned, all bold in remnants of ill-fitting armor.
More fool them; the leather of my thick buff coat covered a layer of metal
plates without the vulnerabilities I was assessing in my opponents as they
smirked. I donТt wear a hauberk; it attracts notice and my usefulness to my
Prince depends on going unremarked. I laid a hand to my own sword. It sparkled
silver on the pommel, the polished scabbard bright in a watery gleam of fugitive
sunlight now that the rain had stopped.
УWhatТs your charge?Ф I asked, face calm, mind anticipating the next moves. I
spend long seasons trying to teach the militia raised for the House of DТOlbriot
that thereТs no virtue in fighting if you can avoid it, but Lescaris learn the
opposite in their leading strings, from their warring dukes down, to the endless
grief of their torn and bleeding land.
The leader finally registered my unfamiliar accent. УTormalin man, are you?
Fancy words, fancy horse and blade. What youТve got in your purse, thatТll be
the rate for the road!Ф
Evidently a man with no more sense than Dastennin gave a flatfish. УIТll give
you the price of a meal.Ф I smiled without humor. УYou can thank the Lord of the
Sea for that.Ф
The other three looked tempted by the thought of food they could pay for rather
than a fight for their dinner, as I had suspected. The leader scowled, unwilling
to back down. УWeТll spare a coin to Talagrin at the next shrine, when weТve
selled your horse and your gear, thank the Hunter for sending us a plump pigeon
ripe for the plucking.Ф
УYou want to try for my feathers?Ф I drew my sword. It slid gleaming from the
scabbard with a steely rasp and the rusty weapons facing me wavered. УWhy? IТm
carrying nothing but letters from my patron.Ф
I wouldnТt have been bandying words with outcasts before IТd visited AitenТs
family, I reflected. Not when IТd been carrying enough true-minted Tormalin gold
to buy up half this sorry fiefdom. I wasnТt the only one looking to defend my
honor, the coin reflecting the value Messire DТOlbriot put on AitenТs oath now
his death demanded its redemption. I forced myself to lay aside the burden of my
own guilt while I dealt with these vermin.
УSworn man, are you?Ф the foremost sneered, letting his sword point dip as he
scratched his lice-infested head. УLick-spittle to some fat-arsed Prince who
spends all his days with his head in a jug, playing with himself. ThatТs how you