"01 - Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moonshae)

The village of Corwell lay next to the firth on the far side of the festival grounds. Made up mainly of small wooden cottages and shops, the little community was nearly empty now, as the villagers were all at the festival. A low wall, more a symbol of a border than a real bastion of defense, surrounded the village on three sides. The wooden docks of the waterfront created the fourth side.
These docks reached into a placid circle of blue, formed by a high stone breakwater. Within the circle were anchored the dozens of vessels of the Corwellian fisherffolk, as well as the larger vessels of the visiting traders.
The little party neared the castle, their steps slowing from the steepness of the climb. The castle road spiraled around the steep knoll, making a long curve to the gatehouse. To the walkers' left, the side of the knoll itself dropped rapidly to the commonsfield below. To their right, the same slope rose steeply to the base of the wooden palisade.
Robyn finally broke the awkward silence among the four. She fell in step with the thief, caught his eye, and, with a bold smile, spoke.
"I'm Robyn, and this is Tristan."
Daryth looked at the prince quizzically. "Your... sister?" he asked, indicating Robyn.
"No. Robyn was raised as my father's ward," explained Tristan, suddenly eager to clarify the relationship.
He remembered, momentarily, how annoyed he had been at the way Robyn had looked at the thief after the fight. She was looking at him that way again, something more than curiosity in her eyes.
"The pleasure is all mine," offered the thief. "I'm afraid circumstances prevent me from - urf!" Erian gave a sharp tug to Daryth's cloak, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
"Not so rough, Erian," Tristan told the guard. "He offers no resistance."
Erian almost sneered at the prince, but settled for turning his back in disgust.
"Very perceptive," muttered Daryth, nodding his appreciation. "As a matter of fact, I hope to convince you that this is all a giant misunderstanding. In truth, I like this little town, and intend to stay here - for a while anyway.
"You see," he continued as if in confidence, "I'm really no sailor. I came here on the Silver Crescent, working my way.
"I, a master trainer of dogs, forced to such... Well, anyway, your little town seemed like a convenient location. I was going to settle down, start an honest business -"
"But temptation got the better of you," concluded the prince.
"Er, I am really very sorry about that. Rather mischievous of me. If I had known then what I do now... but I suppose there's no sense crying about it."
The group reached the gatehouse, and the bulk of Caer Corwell towered above them. The great wooden palisade stretched to the right and left until it curved out of sight around the crest of the knoll. The gatehouse, which stood astride the road at the top of the steep, rocky knoll, consisted of a large stone building with four squat towers at the corners. Since the road allowed the only easy access from the coastal plain to the knoll, it was the most heavily defended approach. As usual, however, the heavy wooden gates stood open, and the sturdy portcullis beyond was raised out of the way.
Daryth stopped for a moment and cast a hurried glance back at the festival grounds and the harbor. For a second, his eyes scanned the scene, as if seeking something.
"Move, you," ordered Erian, giving Daryth a shove through the open archway in the gatehouse. Tristan stepped forward to rebuke the guard, but paused at the pressure of Robyn's hand on his arm.
"What can we do?" she whispered, urgently. "Surely he doesn't deserve to die!"
Her tone brooked no argument, and in any event, Tristan shared her sentiment. "He seems like a decent fellow," he said in a low voice. "But the king will look harshly on any thief who has preyed on festival-goers. What can I do?"
"I don't know," she replied, irritated. "Think of something, for once!" Before he could reply, she dashed forward and caught up with the guard and his prisoner as they entered the sunlit courtyard. Cursing under his breath, Tristan followed.
A dozen moorhounds came racing from the kennel at the far end of the courtyard. Sniffing and wagging, they swarmed around Tristan, investigating Daryth and Robyn as well. They kept their distance from Erian, since the big guard's heavy boots were well known to dogs who ventured too close.
Daryth looked surprised at the savage appearance but friendly dispositions of the large dogs. He talked to them, and stroked their shaggy necks. Soon they all crowded around him, following him as he walked along, prodded by Erian.
Reaching the doors to the great hall, the prince, suddenly inspired, turned to the man-at-arms. "You are dismissed, Erian," he announced. "Tell my father we wish to see him!" Robyn flashed him a look of surprise.
The guard opened his mouth to protest, but Tristan cut him off with a stern gesture. "Very well," the big man shrugged, then turned and moved across the courtyard.
Apparently Daryth, busy scratching the chin of Angus, Tristan's oldest hound, did not notice the exchange. He was absorbed in the veteran hunting dog, which wrinkled his brown face in pleasure, and swung his tail slowly in a circle.
"These are beautiful dogs," declared the awed Calishite. "They are yours, are they not?"
Tristan felt a flush of pride. His hounds were the passion of his life, and he was always pleased to have them complimented.
"Indeed," he said. "Are you familiar with the hounds of the Moonshaes?"
"Any man who enjoys dogs has heard of the moorhound. I have trained many types of dogs in my life. For many years, in Calimshan, I worked with desert racers. I had thought no dog could compare to the racer as a hunter, but these hounds are superior in size and power! Oh, for a chance to train such as these!"
Robyn looked warmly at Daryth, then turned to Tristan, a mute appeal shining from her dark eyes. Again the prince felt that surge of jealousy.
The doors to the great hall swung open, and a maid emerged to escort them in, for Caer Corwell had no heralds. "The king awaits you," she announced with a polite nod.
The trio entered the shadowy hall. They walked between a pair of huge oaken tables toward the great fireplace at the far end of the hall. Before that fireplace, in a heavy wooden chair, sat King Kendrick of Corwell.
The king looked up at their approach, but said nothing. Tristan could not help but feel an irrational flicker of guilt at the sight of the deep lines of sorrow etched into his father's face. He steeled himself for the encounter.
King Bryon Kendrick's hair was black grown heavily streaked with gray. Among the lines on his face, one could see strength and determination, as well as pain and grief. The king's beard, like his hair a mass of black salted with patches of gray and white, flowed down his chest.
As usual, King Kendrick looked bored at the prince's approach. It was no secret to anyone that the prince of Corwell was something of a disappointment to the king. Tristan hoped the king would not harangue him with sarcasm in front of Robyn and the others.
To Tristans relief, the king turned to smile at Robyn, and his eyes, briefly, flashed a spark of warmth. Then, cold again, they regarded the approaching Calishite.
Next to the king sat Arlen, captain of the king's guard and Tristan's lifelong teacher. The grizzled warhorse looked at Tristan speculatively as he and his companions reached the seated men.
"Hello, Father, Arlen," began Tristan, while Robyn curtseyed quickly.
The prince looked again at Daryth, and the Calishite responded to the glance with a fast smile. And with that smile, Tristan felt the beginning of a deep and true friendship, something stalwart and fine that would last between the two of them for the rest of their lives. His mind made up, he quickly settled upon a strategy to save the Calishite's life.
"Father," Tristan said again, turning to the king, "I would like us to hire this man as the royal houndmaster."

* * * * *

Grunnarch the Red stood boldly upon the rolling deck of his longship as the sleek vessel pitched and rocked through looming swells. All around him, like a forest of tall trees, the masts of longships jutted proudly from the Sea of Moonshae. The northmen sailed to war!
Grunnarch, and dozens of the ships of his henchmen - the lesser lords of Norland who owed fealty to him, their king - had taken to sea a week earlier than caution dictated. A late winter storm could have caught his fleet unawares, and wreaked fearful havoc.
But the King of Norland was a gambling man, and a fearless one. He had never shirked from risking his own life, and would not tolerate a follower unwilling to do the same. So his men, by the thousand, had followed him to sea.
The gods of war had thundered in Grunnarch's mind throughout the winter, and he had paced his gray fortress like a raging Firbolg. The tension, he knew, had been felt throughout Norland. Thus, even before the weather had broken completely, the northmen had provisioned their longships, bade farewell to their homes, and taken to sea.
The long summer before him beckoned like a seductive woman, and Grunnarch's mind roamed happily over prospects of raiding and stealing, capturing slaves, and fighting glorious battles in the months ahead.