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

Spotting him at last, the man got to his feet and stared at Valder in open
astonishment. "Who in Hell are you!" he demanded.

He spoke in Ethsharitic; Valder relaxed somewhat and looked the old man over.

He was short and scrawny, with unkempt white hair hacked off raggedly at
shoulder length and a messy beard. The gray robe he wore was clean but badly
worn, with faded patches at each elbow and faint stains here and there. The
pointed gray hat had fallen unnoticed to the ground when its owner arose. A rope
belt encircled his waist and carried a large leather pouch on one side, a
sheathed dagger on the other, where it had been hidden from Valder before; the
old man's right hand rested on the hilt of the knife. His feet were bare, his
eyes wide, and his mouth open with surprise.

He did not look dangerous, despite the dagger; for one thing, the weapon was
still sheathed, where an experienced fighter would have drawn it automatically.
Valder guessed the man to be a hermit, someone who hadn't seen another human
being in years. His amazement at Valder's presence was very evident.

"I'm lost and alone," Valder replied.

The old man stared at him for a moment, then called, "Didn't ask that." He
sounded peevish; his surprise was fading into irritation at Valder's intrusion.

"I'm a soldier; I got separated from my unit. You don't expect me to give my
name, do you? For all I know you're an enemy magician; if I tell you my name,
you might have power over me."

The old man squinted, nodded an acknowledgment of the truth of Valder's words,
and then motioned with his left hand for Valder to approach. His right hand
remained on the hilt of his knife. "Come here, soldier," he said.

With his own right hand on the hilt of his sword, Valder made his way through a
few feet of grass and several yards of mud and reeds and eventually splashed up
out of the marsh onto the little island of dry ground surrounding the hut. He
stood waiting while the old man looked him over carefully. As he waited, he
remembered the three northerners somewhere behind him and suppressed an urge to
tell the old man to hurry up; there was no need to frighten him yet.

"Ethsharitic, hah?" the old man said at last.

"Yes. Scout First Class, with the Western Command under General Gor."

"What are you doing out here, then? Nothing to scout around here." Before Valder
could reply, he added with sudden harshness, "Isn't any fighting around here, is
there?"

"I got cut off from my unit, far south of here, and got chased north. The
fighting is still a long way off. I thought maybe you could help meЧloan me a