"Ed Greenwood - Spellfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

It was hot and close in the low-beamed room. Narm blinked wearily. Marimmar
showed signs of neither weariness nor relaxation in the cozy warmth of this
place. I suppose all inns are the same, more or less, Narm thought, but to
take thisтАФhis gaze strayed again around the noisy camaraderie of the roomтАФall
for granted!
But before Marimmar snapped at him to mind his studies and not the antics of
drunken locals, Narm noticed that the girl who had stared at him from the dark
passage across the room was gone. The darkness there didn't seem right without
her. She belonged in that spot, somehow. And yetтАФ
"Will you heed?" Marimmar snapped, really angry now. "What has hold of your
senses, boy? One drink and this? You'll have a short life indeed, if you gad
about like this when you're in the wild! Some creatures would look upon you as
a quick meal. And they'll not wait for you to notice them before they feed!"
Obediently, Narm faced his master and dragged his attention back to queries on
casting spells: casting in the dark, casting when the proper components were
lacking, casting (Marimmar added acidly) when drunk. Again, Narm's head swam
with the picture, his forever now, of the girl gazing into his eyes from the
shadows. He almost looked to see if she was there, but checked under his
master's gaze.
One of the adventurers bad chanced to spill a platter of food, so Shandril was
there when it happened. The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number,
led by an important, square-bearded, young giant of a man who was fast
becoming too drunk to keep his seat. His name was Burlane. Gold gleamed and
winked in the firelight at his ears and his throat, upon his fingers, and at
his belt. He belched and chuckled and reached vaguely for his tankard again.
Tb his left sat a real dwarf, the worn and baggy leather of his breeches not a
foot from Shandril's bent bead as she scrubbed and scraped beneath the table.
The breeches smelled of woodsmoke. The dwarf was called Delg, "the Fearless,"
as one of his companions had added mockingly, to everyone's amusement. Delg
wore a dagger strapped to his
leg just above his boot; its hilt shone enticingly inches from Shandril's
face. Something rose up within her and, trembling a little, yet with infinite
care, she reached out. . .
One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with a
gray-white beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the
ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor. Shandril had heard it before, but it was
still fascinating. She listened intently, scarcely daring to breathe, as she
took hold and pulled ever-so-gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and
heavy in her hand.
"... So for many long years the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew
over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or
spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the woods still, not
a week's ride north of here. Waiting for the braveтАФand the foolishтАФ to try for
it, for it is guarded by devils... and worse."
The old man paused, his audience intent upon his every word, and raised his
tankard. His free hand slid across his chest like a striking snake.
One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face,
was passing behind him, and old Ghondarrath grunted and set down his tankard.
He raised his other hand, and all could see the adventurer's wrist clasped
within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath's purse.