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

vials, and bizarre paraphernalia. It was obvious why the hermit had been able to
identify the Spell of Sustenance so easily.

"You're a wizard, aren't you?" Valder said. Only a wizard had any use for such
things as mummified bats and bottled organs, so far as Valder was aware.
Sorcery, witchcraft, demonology, and theurgy all had their own ceremonial
trappings, but those were not among them.

The old man glanced at the cluttered shelves as he sank into the wicker chair.
"Yes, I am," he said. "Are you?"

"No," Valder answered, "I'm just a soldier."

"You've got that spell."

"They issue that to any scout who's going out on patrol for more than a day and
a night." He looked around again, impressed by the arcane bric-a-brac.

"Sit down," the hermit said, pointing at the wooden chest. "Sit down, and tell
me what's happening in the world."

Valder's feet were tired and soreЧin fact, his entire body was tired and sore.
He settled gratefully onto the wooden trunk, allowing himself to forget
momentarily that he had no time to rest while the northerners were after him.
His boots made a wet squeaking as his weight was removed.

"Get those off," the wizard said. "I'll light a fire and you can dry them out.
And I'm hungry, even if you can't eat; I don't use that charm if I can help it.
It wears you down if you keep it going too long, you know; it can ruin your
health. If you don't think the smell will break the enchantment, I'm going to
make my dinner."

"A fire would be wonderful," Valder said, reaching down to remove his boots.
"Please don't let me interfere; you go right ahead and eat."

As he pulled off his second boot, however, he suddenly remembered his pursuers.
They might, he realized, arrive at any moment, if he had not lost them by
entering the marsh. "Ah... Wizard?" he asked, "Do you speak the northern
tongue?"

The sun had set and the light was beginning to fade; the old man was lighting a
fish-oil lamp with a flame that sprang from the tip of his finger. When the wick
was alight, he curled his finger into his palm, snuffing the flame, and turned
to look at his guest. "No," he said. "Haven't needed it. Why?"

"Because there's a northern patrol after me. I should have told you sooner. They
spotted me four days ago and have been following ever since. There are three of
them; one's a sorcerer, and at least one is shatra."

"You led them here!" The old man's voice became a screech.