"William Forstchen - Magic The Gathering - Arena" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)

less remorse than if he squashed a roach."

"What do you mean now?" Hammen asked quietly.

"Oh, I hear the story of the old days, when things were different, when fighters were required to go on
pilgrimage, to serve others who needed them."
Hammen spit on the ground.

"The old days are dead, hanin. If you came here thinking different, I think I'll simply leave you right now.
I've taken a bit of a liking to you and would hate to see you dead before the day is out. Only a fool
would believe that fighters care about the rest of us."

"So why should the people care?"

"That's what I mean," Hammen replied. "You don't understand the human soul. They know the truth, but
they'll still cheer their hero on and by doing so feel that somehow they're part of his glory and power.
Once Festival starts they're transported to heaven for three days. They can forget the squalor, the
sickness, the short brutal lives that consume them. They're out there in the arena, listening to the chanting
roar, dueling for power, for prestige, for their lives and for the approval of the Walker, who takes the
final winner with him so that he can serve in other worlds. For three days out of the entire year the mob
can live the dream."

Garth looked over quizzically at Hammen, whose voice had grown soft, his tone serious, and surprisingly
the touch of an accent of high breeding creeping into his words.

"You speak like you've been out there," Garth said, fixing Hammen with his gaze.

Hammen looked back at him and, for a brief instant, Garth felt as if someone other than a raggedy
pickpocket and gutter dweller walked beside him. He sensed a distant power as if the man could control
the mana, the foundations of power for all fighters, which was derived from the lands and all creatures
who lived upon them. Hammen slowed in his walk and Garth sensed an infinite sadness and then like a
frost melting away in the light of dawn Hammen became the raggedy man again, cackling, hawking, and
spitting on the ground, pointing out the sights of the city to an outsider.

They continued up the street, which was now starting to fill. Garth pulled out the two pomegranates
tucked into his tunic and tossed one over to Hammen. Garth bit into the fruit and ate it slowly as they
strolled along. They passed by the street of steel and Garth stopped for a moment to watch as the
merchants hung out their cheap blades in front of the store. Stopping in front of one, he looked into the
gloomy interior and saw the finest weapons hanging inside, the merchant's guards sitting in the shadows.
Scimitars, broadswords, and light rapiers caught and reflected the pulsing glow of the forges working
deeper within the shop, the smiths hammering out their creations in showers of sparks.

"Good blades in the back, blades with long histories and names for connoisseurs of refined weapons
capable even of piercing through fields of spells to draw a fighter's blood," Hammen whispered as if filled
with distant longing.

Next came the street of brass workers, and then the silversmiths and workers of gold, each stall guarded
by armed men and even an occasional spell caster of the first-rank, who could conjure a single creature
of the beyond to kill thieves. Garth looked at the first-rank men and shook his head. Most of them were
old men, who had never gone beyond the first-rank since they lacked the skills and the innately given