"Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 02 - The Great Hunt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jordan Robert)

its hills, and whipped around a tower of the fortress in the very center of the town, a tower atop which
two men seemed to dance. Hard-walled and high, Fal Dara, both keep and town, never taken, never
betrayed. The wind moaned across wood-shingled rooftops, around tall stone chimneys and taller
towers, moaned like a dirge.

Stripped to the waist, Rand al'Thor shivered at the wind's cold caress, and his fingers flexed on the long
hilt of the practice sword he held. The hot sun had slicked his chest, and his dark, reddish hair clung to
his head in a sweat-curled mat. A faint odor in the swirl of air made his nose twitch, but he did not
connect the smell with the image of an old grave fresh-opened that flashed through his head. He was
barely aware of odor or image at all; he strove to keep his mind empty, but the other man sharing the
tower top with him kept intruding on the emptiness. Ten paces across, the tower top was, encircled by a
chest-high, crenellated wall. Big enough and more not to feel crowded, except when shared with a
Warder.

Young as he was, Rand was taller than most men, but Lan stood just as tall and more heavily muscled, if
not quite so broad in the shoulders. A narrow band of braided leather held the Warder's long hair back
from his face, a face that seemed made from stony planes and angles, a face unlined as if to belie the tinge
of gray at his temples. Despite the heat and exertion, only a light coat of sweat glistened on his chest and
arms. Rand searched Lan's icy blue eyes, hunting for some hint of what the other man intended. The
Warder never seemed to blink, and the practice sword in his hands moved surely and smoothly as he
flowed from one stance to another.

With a bundle of thin, loosely bound staves in place of a blade, the practice sword would make a loud
clack when it struck anything, and leave a welt where it hit flesh. Rand knew all too well. Three thin red
lines stung on his ribs, and another burned his shoulder. It had taken all his efforts not to wear more
decorations. Lan bore not a mark.

As he had been taught, Rand formed a single flame in his mind and concentrated on it, tried to feed all
emotion and passion into it, to form a void within himself, with even thought outside. Emptiness came. As
was too often the case of late it was not a perfect emptiness; the flame still remained, or some sense of
light sending ripples through the stillness. But it was enough, barely. The cool peace of the void crept
over him, and he was one with the practice sword, with the smooth stones under his boots, even with
Lan. All was one, and he moved without thought in a rhythm that matched the Warder's step for step and
move for move.

The wind rose again, bringing the ringing of bells from the town.Somebody's still celebrating that
spring has finally come . The extraneous thought fluttered through the void on waves of light, disturbing
the emptiness, and as if the Warder could read Rand's mind, the practice sword whirled in Lan's hands.

For a long minute the swiftclack-clack-clack of bundled lathes meeting filled the tower top. Rand made
no effort to reach the other man; it was all he could do to keep the Warder's strikes from reaching him.
Turning Lan's blows at the last possible moment, he was forced back. Lan's expression never changed;
the practice sword seemed alive in his hands. Abruptly the Warder's swinging slash changed in
mid-motion to a thrust. Caught by surprise, Rand stepped back, already wincing with the blow he knew
he could not stop this time.

The wind howled across the tower . . . and trapped him. It was as if the air had suddenly jelled, holding
him in a cocoon. Pushing him forward. Time and motion slowed; horrified, he watched Lan's practice
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