"Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Legends - Honoured Enemy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

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PROLOGUE
INTELLIGENCE
The rain had stopped.
Lord Brucal, Knight-Marshal of the Armies of the West, entered the command pavilion, snorting like
a warhorse and swearing under his breath. 'Damn weather,' he finally said. The elderly general,
still broad-shouldered and fit, ran a gloved hand back from his forehead, getting the damn hair
out of his eyes.
Borric, Duke of Crydee, and his second-in-command looked at his old friend with a wry smile.
Brucal was a steadfast warrior and a reliable ally in the politics of the Kingdom of the Isles, as
well as an able field general. But he had a tendency towards vanity, though. Borric knew he was
getting irritated by the regal mane of hair now being plastered to his skull.
'Still sick?' Borric was a striking man of middle years, with more black in his hair and beard
than grey. He had on his usual garments of black - the only colour he had donned since the death
of his wife many years before - and over this he wore the brown tabard of Crydee, emblazoned with
a golden gull above which perched a small golden crown, signifying Borric's royal blood. His eyes
were dark and piercing, and currently showed a slight amusement at his old friend's bluster.
As Borric expected, the old grey-bearded duke swore an oath. 'I'm not sick, damn it! Just a bit of
a sniffle.'
Borric remembered Brucal when he was a young man, visiting Borric's father at Crydee, his
laughter, with his robust joy and a glint in his eye. Even when his reddish-brown hair and beard
had turned grey, Brucal had been a man who lived each day to the fullest. Today was the first time
Borric recognized that Brucal was now an old man.
On the other hand, it had to be said that Brucal was an old man who could quickly draw a sword and
do considerable harm. And he refused to admit he was ill.
Brucal pulled off his heavy gauntlets and handed them to an aide. He allowed another to remove the
heavy fur-lined weather-cloak he had worn from his own tent. He was dressed in simple blue
trousers and a grey tunic, his tabard left behind in his tent. 'And this bloody rain doesn't
help.'
'Another week of this and the snows will be falling in earnest.'
'According to our scouts, it's already snowing heavily up north, around the Lake of the Sky,'
replied Brucal. 'We should consider sending the reserves back to LaMut and Yabon for the winter.'
Borric nodded. 'We might get one more week of clement weather before the winter storms come,
though. Just enough time for the Tsurani to start something. I think we'll keep half of the
reserves close by, I'll order the other half back to LaMut.'
Brucal looked at the campaign map on the large table before Borric. He said, 'They haven't been
doing much, lately, have they?'
'The same as last year,' said Borric, pointing at the map. 'A sortie here, a raid there, but
there's little evidence they seek to expand much any more.'
Borric studied the map: the invading Tsurani had taken a large chunk of the Grey Tower Mountains
and the Free Cities of Natal, but had seemed satisfied to hold a stable front for the last five
years of the war. The dukes had managed one successful raid through the valley in the mountains
the Tsurani had used as their beachhead, and since then intelligence about what was occurring
behind enemy lines was non-existent.
Brucal blew his nose in a rag used to oil weapons, and then threw it into a brazier nearby. His
large nose now looked red and shiny. The nine-year campaign had taken its toll on him, Borric
noticed.
Borric thought back a moment to when the first sightings of the Tsurani invaders had been
reported, by two boys at his own keep who had found a wrecked Tsurani ship on the headlands near