"Mercedes Lackey - Bard's Tale 3 - Prison of Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

wood, their oak swords clacking away in the bright
sun. Alaire lunged early, catching Naitachal by sur-
prise. But the elf parried and thrust easily, slipping out
of the trap the youth was setting up, trying to pin the
elf against a tree. Alaire charged, using his blade like a
broadsword, and using his greater reach to force his
Master to the edge of the field. Naitachal tucked and
rolled, becoming a blur of black motion that vanished
behind Alaire before he turned, then reappeared at
the periphery of Alaire's vision.
"I thought you said no magic!" Alaire protested,
fielding a counterattack with difficulty.
"None used," Naitachal said smoothly. "Pay atten-
tion to the sword, lad."
Alaire yielded to Naitachal's powerful, but meas-
ured thrusts, hoping to gain control of the contest. The
Dark Elf tripped and wavered momentarily as he lost
his balance, but gained it back quickly.
"Good move," Naitachal said, as their weapons
clacked; the contest fell into a mesmerizing rhythm as
Alaire probed for a weakness in the Dark Elf's
defense. 'Ten more of those and we might come out
even."
The bardling grinned; he Liked how his teacher
turned praise into a demand for more and better
effort. It kept the game interesting.
Alaire sensed that the Dark Elf was intentionally
ignoring his weaker left side. Only yesterday Naitachal
had drilled him endlessly, attacking on his left, until
that side ached. Now... nothing. Even as he consid-
ered this, Naitachal sidestepped off the field, ducked
behind a tree and came out on the weaker left.
Alaire was ready. Instead of backpedaling he lunged
again. The tip of the sword touched the edge of Nai-
tachal's black tunic, but no more; the elf had
sidestepped. Alaire cursed softly, catching a glint of
amusement in Naitachal's dark blue eyes.
Anger surged briefly over him as the swords clashed,
though Naitachal was only doing what any Master
should. The pace of the combat increased. The two
moved back towards the center of the practice field,
kicking up dust in the process. Naitachal was not going
to relinquish his control of the combat that easily. The
Dark Elf's breathing was a little more labored now.
After first faking high to lure Alaire's point away from
his intended target, the elf came in low with his sword.
Alaire deflected it, knocking the elf's swordtip into the
dirt. If he'd parried a little harder, he might have
disarmed his Master, and that would have been a first.
Too easy. Far too easy, Alaire thought, wondering