"Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 00 - New Spring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

Blight meant death to most men. Death and the Shadow, a rotting land tainted by the Dark One's
breath, where anything at all could kill. Two tosses of a coin had decided where to begin anew.
Four nations bordered the Blight, but his war covered the length of it, from the Aryth Ocean to
the Spine of the World. One place to meet death was as good as another. He was almost home.
Almost back to the Blight.
A dry moat surrounded Canluum's wall, fifty paces wide and ten deep, spanned by five
broad stone bridges with towers at either end as tall as those that lined the wall itself. Raids out of
the Blight by Trollocs and Myrddraal often struck much deeper into Kandor than Canluum, but
none had ever made it inside the city's wall. The Red Stag waved above every tower. A proud
man, was Lord Varan, the High Seat of House Marcasiev; Queen Ethenielle did not fly so many
of her own banners even in Chachin itself.
The guards at the outer towers, in helmets with Varan's antlered crest and the Red Stag on
their chests, peered into the backs of wagons before allowing them to trundle on to the bridge, or
occasionally motioned someone to push a hood further back. No more than a gesture was
necessary; the law in every Borderland forbade hiding your face inside village or town, and no
one wanted to be mistaken for one of the Eyeless trying to sneak into the city. Hard gazes
followed Lan and Bukama on to the bridge. Their faces were clearly visible. And their hadori. No
recognition lit any of those watching eyes, though. Two years was a long time in the Borderlands.
A great many men could die in two years.
Lan noticed that Bukama had gone silent, always a bad sign, and cautioned him. 'I never
start trouble,' the older man snapped, but he did stop fingering his swordhilt.
The guards on the wall above the open iron-plated gates and those on the bridge wore
only back- and breastplates for armour, yet they were no less watchful, especially of a pair of
Malkieri with their hair tied back. Bukama's mouth grew tighter at every step.
'Al'Lan Mandragoran! The Light preserve us, we heard you were dead fighting the Aiel at
the Shining Walls!' The exclamation came from a young guard, taller than the rest, almost as tall
as Lan. Young, perhaps a year or two less than he, yet the gap seemed ten years. A lifetime. The
guard bowed deeply, left hand on his knee. 'Tai'shar Malkier!' True blood of Malkier. 'I stand
ready, Majesty.'
'I am riot a king,' Lan said quietly. Malkier was dead. Only the war still lived. In him, at
least.
Bukama was not quiet. 'You stand ready for what, boy?' The heel of his bare hand struck
the guard's breastplate right over the Red Stag, driving the man upright and back a step. 'You cut
your hair short and leave it unbound!' Bukama spat the words. 'You're sworn to a Kandori lord!
By what right do you claim to be Malkieri?'
The young man's face reddened as he floundered for answers. Other guards started
towards the pair, then halted when Lan let his reins fall. Only that, but they knew his name, now.
They eyed his bay stallion, standing still and alert behind him, almost as cautiously as they did
him. A warhorse was a formidable weapon, and they could not know Cat Dancer was only half-
trained yet.
Space opened up as people already through the gates hurried a little distance before
turning to watch, while those still on the bridge pressed back. Shouts rose in both directions from
people wanting to know what was holding traffic. Bukama ignored it all, intent on the red-faced
guard. He had not dropped the reins of the packhorse or his yellow roan gelding.
An officer appeared from the stone guardhouse inside the gates, crested helmet under his
arm, but one hand in a steel-backed gauntlet resting on his swordhilt. A bluff, greying man with
white scars on his face, Alin Seroku had soldiered forty years along the Blight, yet his eyes
widened slightly at the sight of Lan. Plainly he had heard the tales of Lan's death, too.
'The Light shine upon you, Lord Mandragoran. The son of el'Leanna and al'Akir, blessed
be their memories, is always welcome.' Seroku's eyes flickered towards Bukama, not in welcome.