"Hawke, Simon - Sorcerer 01 - The Reluctant Sorcerer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

"So then you've seen one before?" asked Brewster eagerly.

"I can say with certitude that I have not," Mick replied.

"Oh," said Brewster, his spirits falling. He sighed. Now what? * * * "Well, 'tis not much, but 'tis home," said Mick as Brewster ducked down low to get through the tiny doorway. "Bit close for someone your size," added Mick apologetically, "but I don't get much company, you see." "Oh, it's... charming," said Brewster, bent over almost completely double to avoid banging his head on the ceiling.

The little thatch-roofed cabin in the woods looked like a child's playhouse, set in a clearing next to a somewhat larger structure made of stone that housed Mick's forge and shop.

"You'd likely be more comfortable in the smithy," Mick said, "but I'll have to clean it up some. Still, at least there's room for a human to stretch out in there." "You're very kind," said Brewster. "I really appreciate your hospitality. I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble." "Oh, 'tis no trouble at all. Good Brewster," Mick replied. " Tis not every day I have the privilege to entertain a great personage such as yourself." "I wish you'd call me Doc," said Brewster. "All my friends call me Doc." "Well, 'tis a privilege, indeed," said Mick. "Doc it shall be, then. My fall name is Michael Timothy O'Fallon, at your service, but most people call me Mick. Are you a drinkin' man?" "Yes, I think I could use a drink," said Brewster, sitting down cross-legged behind a large, albeit very low, table.

"I have just the thing," said Mick, producing a pair of tankards, which he filled from a large ceramic jug. Brewster noticed that although most things in the little cabin were on a miniature scale, the tankards were certainly man-sized.

Mick raised his tankard solemnly and offered a toast. "May your path be free of dragons, and may your life be long. May you never lack for maidens that will fill your heart with song. May your courage never waver and your blade be ever true, and should your enemy be braver, may he not run as fast as you." He looked at Brewster expectantly.

"Uh... over the lips and past the gums, look out, stomach, here it comes," Brewster said rather lamely.

Mick beamed and drained his tankard at one gulp, then smacked his lips, patted his middle, and said, "Ahhhhh." Brewster took a sip and gagged. It felt as if he'd swallowed drain cleaner. The noxious liquid burned its way down his esophagus like sulphuric acid spiked with white phosphorus. His eyes bugged out and he made a sound like the death rattle of a horse as he clutched at his throat and fought for breath.

"Good, eh?" Mick said, grinning at him. " 'Tis my special recipie. Brewed from the root of the peregrine bush. 'Tis a lengthy process, unless you don't count the time it takes to chase down the damn bushes and wrestle 'em to me ground. Thorny little bastards, too." Brewster was turning an interesting shade of mottled purple.

"Of course, 'tis the agin' process that makes all the difference," Mick continued, refilling his own tankard. He held the jug up and raised his eyebrows, but all Brewster could manage was a violent shake of his head and an emphysemic wheeze.

"So then," Mick continued, taking another hearty swallow of the odious brew, "if I understand correctly, your chariot has brought you here from a distant city known as London, but there was somethin' to the spell that went amiss, as this was not the intended destination of your journey, am I right, then?" Brewster gasped for breath and nodded weakly. His vision was starting to blur.

" Tis the sort of thing that happens, sometimes, with a spell," said Mick, nodding sympathetically. "Even to the best of wizards. It's happened to me, y'know, with some of my potions, not that I claim to be an adept, of course. Far be it from me to do any such foolish thing. I know the law, I do. I'm merely a student of the art of alchemy. 'Tis a hobby, bein' as I'm one of the little people and therefore fey, though 'tis a shame we're not permitted to join the Guild." While Mick loquaciously warmed to his subject, Brewster simply sat there with his eyes glazing over. He didn't really hear what Mick was saying because of the loud buzzing in his ears.

"Not that I'm complainin', mind you," Mick continued. "I'm sure the directors of the Guild know best, and I would never gainsay them, but I do think we little people have somethin' to contribute. Tisn't true, y'know, that we're all mischievous and devious tricksters. I've no idea how that rumor got about, for there's not a grain of truth to it. Still, there you have it." Brewster's pupils had become extremely dilated. He couldn't move a muscle.

"My customers come to me because they know my reputation as a craftsman," Mick went on. "You'll not find a better blade in these parts than one forged by Mick O'Fallon, mind you, yet each and every one of them comes thinkin' that I'll cheat them. 'Tis what they've been brought up to expect from leprechauns, y'see. Malicious gossip. Not a word of truth in it. Don't ask me how it all got started, I haven't the faintest clue. Unless it was the elves. I wouldn't put it past them. Never did trust elves. Bloody great lot of troublemakers, if you ask me. Never did a lick of honest work in their lives. Spend all their time sittin' 'round in coffeehouses, playin' their guitars and talkin' about philosophy and whatnot. Ever try to have a conversation with an elf? 'Tis like openin' a book in the bloody middle." Without a word, Brewster slowly keeled over and crashed to the floor.

"Oh, dear," said Mick, staring at his inert form on the floor. "Poor chap must've been tired from his journey, and here I am, talkin' his ear off. Well, we'll make up a nice straw bed for you in the smithy and let you have a nice rest, shall we? Then in the momin', perhaps if you're not too busy, you might take a look at my alchemical laboratory." He got up from his chair, went around the table, and effortlessly picked Brewster up in his arms. He was as stiff as a dead carp.

"Never had the benefit of a real sorcerer's advice, y'know," said Mick. "Always had to muddle through sort of on me own. Still, if you're stuck here till you can build another magic chariot, well then, perhaps you might consider takin' me on as an apprentice. I'm a good worker, I am. Learn fast, too. Never can tell, if I get good enough, I might even convince the Guild to let me join, though of course, that's probably too much to hope for." He smacked Brewster's head against the door frame as he carried him out of the house to the smithy.

"Ooops. Sorry about that. Feelin' no pain, are you? Good. Be a bit of a bump though. Tell him he got it when he fell over. Aye, that's what I'll do." He carried Brewster into the smithy and prepared a straw bed, well away from the forge, just to be on the safe side. Then he laid him down gently and covered him with a frayed and faded blanket.

"There, I guess that'll do you proper. Sleep well, Brewster Doc. In the mornin' we'll see about gettin' you settled. We haven't had a sorcerer in these parts for quite a spell, no pun intended. Folks will be right pleased and excited. Never know, you might even consider stayin'. I imagine there's many adepts in a big city like your London. What's one less, eh? Sure, and they'll never miss you." Brewster awoke in the morning to something rubbing up against him. It felt scratchy. He grunted and rolled over onto his other side. He frowned. His bed felt funny. He had always liked a hard mattress, but the bed felt very soft for some strange reason and it crackled when he moved. It also felt somewhat bristly. He frowned and lay still for a moment, still on the edge of wakefulness. Something rubbed up against him once again and he felt a pricking sensation.

"Ouch! Pamela, stop that," he mumbled. "Your nails are long." He shifted in bed and once again felt it crackle beneath him. It also smelled strange, he suddenly noticed. He sniffed several times experimentally. The scent was not unpleasant. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying on a bed of straw.

Straw? For a moment he felt disoriented. And then something started rubbing up against him once again, with a rustling sort of sound, and he felt that same scratchy, prickling sensation.

"Pamela..." He rolled over and got a faceful of leaves and sharp little moms. He cried out with pain and surprise, recoiled, and rolled out of the straw bed onto the floor. With a convulsive, rustling movement, the small bush recoiled in the opposite direction, scuttling off toward the wall, where it seemed to huddle fearfully, it's reddish-gold, heart-shaped leaves trembling slightly.

"What the hell..." said Brewster, staring at the little bush, wide-eyed.

Tentatively, the little bush scuttled forward, moving toward him a few feet. Brewster backed away, crablike, across the floor. The little bush stopped, its leaves rustling. Then it started moving toward him once again.

Alarmed, Brewster scooted back against the opposite wall. "Get back!" he cried out.