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

open plain. It had been phenomenally bad luck for Valder to have been out on
solo patrol, checking the woods for signs of the enemy, when the assault came.

He had been looking for saboteurs and guerrillas, not the whole northern army.

Valder still did not understand how the enemy had cut through so quickly; all he
knew was that, when he headed back toward camp, he had found northerners
marching back and forth across the smoldering ruins of his home base, between
himself and the Ethsharitic lines. He had encountered no scouts, no advance
units, had had no warning. The fact that he had been sent out alone, in itself,
indicated that his superiors hadn't thought the enemy had any significant forces
within a dozen leagues, at the very least.

With the enemy to the south, the sea to the west, and nothing to the east but
forest wilderness clear to the borders of the Northern Empire itself, he had
headed north. He had hoped to get well away from the enemy, then find or build
himself a boat and work his way south along the coast until he reached the
Ethsharitic linesЧsurely the enemy could not have driven very far to the south,
certainly not as far as General Gor's fortress. He knew nothing about boats, but
he was reasonably sure that the enemy knew no more than he did. The Northern
Empire was an inland nation; he doubted that there was any northern navy to
worry about.

Unfortunately, the enemy had followed him northward along the shoreline, not
because they knew he was there, but, as best he could guess, because they were
afraid of Ethsharitic landings. He had kept moving north, staying ahead of the
enemy scouts; four times he had settled in one spot long enough to start work on
a raft, but each time a northern patrol had come along and driven him away long
before he had a seaworthy craft.

Finally, four days ago, he had been careless, and a northerner who moved with
the inhumanly smooth grace and speed of a shatra had spotted him. He had been
running ever since, snatching naps when he could and using every ruse he could
think of and every spell in his pouch.

He pulled off his right sock and wrung it out, then draped it on the grass to
dry; he knew that it would just get wet again when he moved on, as he would have
to do quickly, but while he rested he wanted it dry. He was tugging at his left
sock when he heard the rustle of grass. He froze.

The sound came again, from somewhere behind him, to the northЧhe had seated
himself facing back the way he had come so as to have a better chance of
spotting his pursuers.

It didn't seem likely that even shatra could have circled around behind him
already. Perhaps, he told himself, it was just a bird or an animal of some sort.
Carefully, with his right foot bare and his left sock hanging halfway off, he
rose, trying not to rustle, and peered through the waving stalks.

Something tall was moving about, something dark gray and pointed at the top. Not