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

Birioc grunted as he lifted both arms so Urstra could fasten his be jeweled breastplate. "This thing may date back to my great-great-great grandfather's day, but it's damned uncomfortable and I feel like an idiot wearing it."

"Wear it you shall. Our ancestor who wore it last into battle defeated the combined forces of the Desert and Syr." He paused, running a finger over the polished lumps of uncut dark topaz and emerald that studded the heavy leather. "I would have given it to Beliaev. . . ."

"Who would have lost it when he was killed by Walvis at Tiglath," Birioc said impatiently. "He was a fool to ally himself with lanthe and Roelstra."

Urstra lifted a hand menacingly. "And who are your allies? Chiana? Rinhoel? The same get!"

Birioc crushed the fist in his own. "Dare to threaten your prince again, and your bones will rot with Beliaev's in the sands below Tiglath!"

"It is necessary to take Tiglath first," the old man snarled. "I see no troops from Meadowlord here to help! And none of your precious Vellant'im!"

"With the Northern Desert ours, and Stronghold theirsЧ"

"Burned to blackened walls!"

"Чand only Skybowl and Feruche between, we'll meet at one or the other and that will be the end of Zehava's accursed line in our land!"

Releasing his uncle's hand, he took up comb and mirror and tidied his thick hair. Then he slipped over his head the little dragon he'd hung on a chain. His safe-passage from Swalekeep, given him there by Varek who was second battlelord to the High Warlord of the Vellan-t'im, its gold matched the beads woven into his beard. Thirty-four tokens of men dead by his hand at Tuath, glistening so brightly in the candlelight that one almost didn't notice the break in his beard where the scar on his chin had finally been given. Twice a man, he thought, smiling. And twice a prince. I wonder how my father would prefer to die. . . .

Urstra saw his smile. "Admiring yourself?" he asked angrily. "Which are you? Merida or Vellanti? For whom do you fight?"

"For myself, Uncle. In me flows the blood of all three: Cunaxa, Vellant'im, and Merida. I am the cause all our people will believe in."

At the doorflap of his tent, someone began to applaud. "Brilliant! Truly inspirational! Birioc, dear Brother, you have won my heart!"

Duroth ambled inside, long-limbed and sharp-featured like their father. "If you're interested," he went on, "everybody's ready to go except you."

"Hold your tongue or you'll stay behind to strike my tent, and miss watching me kill Tallain."

"What, not Riyan, too? And both in a single sword stroke? Oh, I beg pardon, Brother. A perfect, masterful thrust from one of your sacred glass knives."

"Would you care for a demonstration?" Birioc caressed the weapon at his beltЧa ceremonial piece only, with no poison inside.

"Save your energy for the battle, both of you!" Urstra snapped. "It's time to mount and be quick about it."

They rode through the chill gloom toward Zagroy's Pillar. Gradually the sky lightened from cloud-shrouded night to a thin, milky pallor. Birioc ordered a pause on the rise overlooking the enemy camp and sent Duroth and Ezanto down to judge how long it had been abandoned. As he waited, the wind in his face, shadows sud-

denly darkened the sand westward before the Pillar. The sun had cleared the cloudless horizon, hidden from Biri-oc's army by towering stones.

His brothers returned to him. "They're playing with us," Duroth growled. "No more than fifty or sixty spent the night here."

"Where are the rest?" Birioc demanded.

"How should I know?"

"How do you know the other, then?"

"Because," Ezanto said levelly, "there's not a single pile of horseshit to be seen, smelled, or stepped in."