"Watt-Evans,.Lawrence.-.Ethshar.1.-.The.Misenchanted.Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

of their movements, Valder was quite certain that at least one of them was
shatraЧhalf man, half demon, though human in appearance. That eerily smooth,
flowing motion was unmistakable.

All three might be shatra; the demon warriors could disguise their movements if
they chose. One of his pursuers was a sorcerer, but he had heard it said around
the barracks that some sorcerers were shatra. It seemed grossly unfair for a
single enemy soldier to have both advantages, but life, he knew, was sometimes
very unfair.

Nobody knew exactly what shatra were capable of, but it was generally believed
that they possessed magically acute sensesЧthough not, probably, up to the level
a good sorcerer could achieve. Valder had to assume that the northerners chasing
him could see and hear and smell far better than he could.

He had managed to stay ahead of the enemy patrol for four days now, but it had
been due to luck as much as to anything else. He had exhausted his last few
prepared spells in diverting the pursuit, but none of the diversions had lasted
very long, and his company's wizard had not provided him with anything useful
for actual combat. Valder was supposed to be a scout, after all; his job, if he
encountered the enemy, had been to run back to base camp to warn his superiors,
not to fight. He was not interested in a glorious death in combat. He was just
another of Ethshar's three million conscript soldiers trying to survive, and,
for an ordinary human against shatra, that meant flight.

He had been able to travel at night as he fled because the greater moon had been
almost full when the chase began, but the wizard-sight he had been given when he
first went out on his routine solo patrol had worn off six nights ago.

Thick morning fogs had helped him, as much as the moon had; he was running blind
to begin with, with no intended destination, and therefore was not concerned
about losing his way in the mist, so long as he didn't walk off a cliff. His
pursuers, however, had had to grope carefully along his trail, using their
sorcerous tracking a few steps at a time. They did not seem to have any
unnatural means of penetrating the fog, either sorcerous or demonic.

And, of course, the enemy had stopped for meals every so often, or for water,
while he had had no need of food or drink. That was the only bit of wizardry he
still had going for him, the only spell remaining; if that were to wear off, he
knew he would be doomed. His outfit's wizard had known his job, though, and
Valder had so far felt not the slightest twinge of hunger or thirst. He felt the
charmed bloodstone in his belt pouch, making certain it was still secure.

Now, though, he had come to this stinking salt marsh and he wondered if his luck
had run out. He settled himself on the grassy hummock and pulled his boots off,
letting the foul water run out.

His luck had really run out two months ago, he decided, when the enemy had
launched a surprise offensive out of nowhere and cut through to the sea, driving
the Ethsharitic forces back down the coast, away from the forests and into the