"Simon Hawke - Wizard 7 - The Wizard of Camelot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

"Are you injured?" he asked.

I shook my head, still somewhat dazed and unable to think of anything to say.

"Well, then what are you doing stretched out there in the mud? Get up."

He extended his wooden staff toward me. I reached out and took hold of it,
and
he pulled me to my feet with surprising ease for a man of his advanced years.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Tom," I said. "Tom Malory."

His eyes widened slightly with surprise, as if my name sounded familiar to
him.
"Thomas Malory?" he said, as if uncertain he had heard correctly.

"Yes, sir." I do not know if I appended the "sir" out of politeness to a
senior
gentleman, or out of habit born of years of service in the military, but in
any
case, he seemed to warrant it, for there was a firmness and authority about
him
that impressed itself upon me instantly.

Standing close to him, I could now make out his features clearly. His face
was
lined with age beneath the beard, and there were crow's-feet around his eyes,
which were deeply set and a startling, periwinkle blue. His nose was sharp
and
prominent, with a slight hook to it, giving him something of the aspect of an
eagle. He had pronounced cheekbones and a high forehead. His eyes, however,
were
his most striking feature. Aside from their startling, bright blue color,
they
were very direct and penetrating in their gaze, and they looked wise. How one
deduces or infers such a thing I cannot imagine, save perhaps from experience
of
having seen other men possessed of wisdom with such eyes, but the impression
was
quite clear and forceful. After all these years, I can still remember that
first meeting with complete and utter clarity, despite the fact that my
thinking
at the time was anything but clear.

"Thomas Malory," he said again, and smiled. "An ironic twist of fate. An
omen.
And, I think, a good one."