"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

"One mighty dragon recognized the mate of the other," Kazander added with a little bow. "Of course, her grace's beauty is famed throughout the princedomsЧ why should not the dragons know of it, too?"

Pol laughedЧand regretted it as the top of his head nearly came off.

"And there's your dragon headache, right on schedule." Feylin grinned. "Can you make it to the keep, or shall we carry you?"

"I'll walk," he said firmly. Meiglan got her shoulder under his arm and they started for the keep.

"Do you really think Azhdeen knows me?" she whispered.

"I've shown you to him often enough as my mate," he teased, brushing a kiss to her hair. "You could probably pet him, next time we see him."

"I wouldn't dare," she confessed. "Besides, he's your dragon, Pol."

"Not at all. I'm his human. And I have a suspicion that he includes you and the girls among his possessions. You're my mate and they're my hatchlings." He saw Ruala coming toward them and lifted his free hand in greeting.

"Welcome, Princess Meiglan," she said with a smile. Then, to Pol: "You certainly do know how to make an entrance, my lord. The Azhrei, complete with an escort of dragons."

His vision began to blur again, and the pounding in his head took on a rhythm and intensity that reminded him of smashing glass ingots at Remagev. "Ruala," he managed, "pleaseЧdon't call me that. ..."

"Kazander!" Feylin's voice came from very far away. "Catch him, he's going to fall over!"

"No, I'm not," Pol said, and then did just that.

CHAPTER FIVE

A warrior's discipline was a valuable thing. Not because it made his commanders grovel before him (though it did) and not because it kept the many diverse clan-kin factions of his armies from each other's throats (though it mostly did).

Discipline's purest expression meant that he was obeyed without question.

Occasionally he wished in a secret portion of his mind for a dissenting voice, an intelligent objectionЧa whetstone against which he might hone his ideas. It was a vain hope. No one ever gainsaid him. Practically speaking, he would be compelled to slit the throat of any who did. In the absence of intellectual equals, he had learned to appreciate the subservience of smaller men with smaller minds. It was efficient. He was obeyed, even if at times he felt strangely lonely.

His father had taught him early to make certain no one approached him on a level more intimate than that of servant to master. There were distinctions of manner and bearing; he knew how to use the physical accoutrements of power and wealth. His clothing, though plainly cut, was of rich material and fine stitchery. The earring that swung close to his jaw was an uncut diamond the size of his thumbnail, bound in gold, with three faceted pendant rubies below. The wristlets reaching halfway to each elbow were no more elaborate in design than those of his senior commanders, but they were unmistakably made of gold, not mere brass kept well-polished.

His one deviation from his father's teachings was in his sword. His position should have been indicated by a

jewel-encrusted hilt and scabbard. But such a weapon would have been impractical in battle, and he was if nothing else an accomplished warrior. His blade was a plain one, and flawless.

He should also have worn a distinguishing badge at his shoulder and decorations on his helm to distinguish his lineage. But the first of his wivesЧa fiercely beautiful woman who bore him five sons before dying in childbed of the sixthЧhad told him that he must wear no clan-kin sign at all. "If you claim none, you may claim all," she said, and he agreed.

This notion had impressed him. After she died, scant days before he sailed to war, he had acted on her wisdom. If he claimed none, he would claim all. And to claim everythingЧfrom leadership of his people to their very livesЧwas his right and intention.

So he did a simple thing. For any warrior, it was desecration; for the High Warlord of All Vellant'im, sacrilege. But the day before the priest begged for and received the Storm Father's permission to sail, he had stood before his assembled armies and with his own sword in a steady hand committed the outrage.

Thus it was that alone of the entire Vellanti host, he wore no beard.

If he claimed no specific kills, he could claim them all. Unfortunately, it worked the same way with battles. Present at none, he was responsible for all. Fortunately, his warriors didn't see it that way.

The failure to secure Kierst-Isel was the fault of the commander there. The humiliations of Remagev and Lower PyrmeЧboth keeps rife with lethal deadfallsЧ were not laid to his account. The rout at Goddess Keep was blamed, quite rightly, on the evil spells of the Sunrunners. And as for Faolain Lowland, and the Fire-dragon that had scattered brave warriors like rice chaff before the wind. . . .