"R A Salvatore - Icewind Dale Trilogy 2 - Streams of Silver" - читать интересную книгу автора (Salvatore R. A)

Their posture and the determined drive of their strides reflected the
eagerness of a newly begun quest, but the set of each adventurer's face
revealed a different perspective of the journey.
The dwarf, Bruenor Battlehammer, leaned forward from his waist, his
stocky legs pumping mightily beneath him, and his pointed nose, poking out
above the shag of his wagging red beard, led the way. He seemed set in
stone, apart from his legs and beard, with his many-notched axe held firmly
before him in his gnarled hands, his shield, emblazoned with the standard
of the foaming mug, strapped tightly on the back of his overstuffed pack,
and his head, adorned in a many-dented horned helm, never turning to either
side. Neither did his eyes deviate from the path and rarely did they blink.
Bruenor had initiated this journey to find the ancient homeland of Clan
Battlehammer, and though he fully realized that the silvery halls of his
childhood were hundreds of miles away, he stomped along with the fervor of
one whose long-awaited goal is clearly in sight.
Beside Bruenor, the huge barbarian, too, was anxious. Wulfgar loped
along smoothly, the great strides of his long legs easily matching the
dwarf's rolling pace. There was a sense of urgency about him, like a
spirited horse on a short rein. Fires hungry for adventure burned in his
pale eyes as clearly as in Bruenor's, but unlike the dwarf, Wulfgar's gaze
was not fixed upon the straight road before them. He was a young man out to
view the wide world for the first time and he continually looked about,
soaking up every sight and sensation that the landscape had to offer.
He had come along to aid his friends on their adventure, but he had
come, as well, to expand the horizons of his own world. The entirety of his
young life had been spent within the isolating natural boundaries of
lcewind Dale, limiting his experiences to the ancient ways of his fellow
barbarian tribesmen and the frontier peoples of Ten-Towns.
There was more out there, Wulfgar knew, and he was determined to grasp
as much of it as he possibly could.
Less interested was Drizzt Do'Urden, the cloaked figure trotting easily
beside Wulfgar. His floating gait showed him to be of elven heritage, but
the shadows of his low-pulled cowl suggested something else. Drizzt was a
drow, a black elf, denizen of the lightless underworld. He had spent
several years on the surface, denying his heritage, yet had found that he
could not escape the aversion to the sun inherent in his people.
And so he sunk low within the shadow of his cowl, his stride
nonchalant, even resigned, this trip being merely a continuation of his
existence, another adventure in a life-long string of adventures. Forsaking
his people in the dark city of Menzoberranzan, Drizzt Do'Urden had
willingly embarked upon the road of the nomad. He knew that he would never
be truly accepted anywhere on the surface; perceptions of his people were
too vile (and rightly so) for even the most tolerant of communities to take
him in. The road was his home now, he was always traveling to avoid the
inevitable heartache of being forced from a place that he might have come
to love.
Ten-Towns had been a temporary sanctuary. The forlorn wilderness
settlement housed a large proportion of rogues and outcasts and, though
Drizzt wasn't openly welcomed, his hard-earned reputation as a guardian of
the towns' borders had granted him a small measure of respect and tolerance