"Lawhead,.Stephen.-.Dragon.King.01.-.In.The.Hall.Of.The.Dragon.King.v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

To the far north was Woodsend, a substantial village of farmers and craftsmen firmly planted on the banks of the Wilst River, a long, lazy branch sprung from the Arvin whose headwaters originated, as did all the rivers which flowed throughout the realm, in the high Fiskill Mountains above Narramoor. At his back rose the imposing mountains themselves, and beyond them the regions of Suthland to the south and Obrey to the north.
These were the Wilderlands, remote and virtually uncharted areas inhabited only by wild animals and even wilder men, the Dher, or Jher as they were often called.
The Jher were the lingering descendants of the most primitive dwellers of the land. They still clung like moss on weathered rock to their obscure ways, changing not at all since anyone could remember.
They were said to possess many strange powersЧgifts which more disposed them toward the wild creatures with whom they shared their rough lands than rendered them acceptable companions for civilized human beings. The Jher kept to themselves for the most part, and were alike left alone by one and all. Quentin, like most younger people, had never seen one. They existed for him as characters out of childrenТs stories, told to frighten and induce obedience in youngsters showing reluctance to behave themselves.
Quentin stirred from his meditation on these and other things to notice that it was approaching midday. He began looking for a sheltered place to stop where he might eat a morsel and rest the horse, who appeared not the least bit taxed for his exertion. The weak winter sun which had been struggling to burn through the hazy overcast all morning suddenly flared high overhead, like a hot poker wearing through sackcloth. Instantly the landscape was transformed from its ghostly pall into dazzling brilliance.
With the sun, although seemingly small and distant, came heat. At least Quentin imagined that he felt warmed, felt the heat spreading over his back and shoulders and seeping through his thick, fur-lined cap. Ahead he spotted a small stand of birch trees encircled by a tangle of forlorn shrubbery and several small evergreens. The site offered a slight shelter from the biting wind which, now that the sun was out, whipped more sharply.
Quentin found the sun good company as he reined the horse aside and tied him to a nearby branch. Clambering down from his steed, the boy fumbled in the shallow rucksack which Biorkis had had made up for him and filled with provisions for the trip. He fished out a small loaf of seed cake and, throwing his cloak beneath him, sat down to eat his meal.
The sun played upon his face, warming the frozen tips of his nose and ears. Quentin removed his hat and turned his face to the thawing warmth. His mind skipped back once more to the bustle and confusion of his leaving; he rehearsed again, as one hundred times before, his instructions. Go to the hermit of Pelgrin Forest. Do not stop, except to eat and to rest the horse. Do not speak to anyone. Do not deliver the letter to anyone but the Queen.
That last order would be the most difficult. But Ronsard, in his final act before losing consciousness, had given his dagger to be used to gain audience. The knightТs golden dagger would be recognized and would speak for the gravity of the occasion.
Quentin was not as distracted by his impending reception at court as he might have been. He was far more curious, and frightenedЧbut curiosity held the better of his fears, to be sureЧover the mysterious communication which was now sewn inside his plain, green jerkin. He absent-mindedly patted the place where it lay next to his ribs. What could it contain? What could be so important?
And yet, as intrigued as he was by the enigma he carried, a part of his mind was worrying over another problem like a hound with a gristle boneЧan item he did not want to consider in any form at all: his future. He avoided the thought like a pain, yet it gnawed at the edges of his consciousness never far from remembrance. Quentin delicately pushed the question aside every time it intruded into his thoughts ... УWhat are you going to do after you have delivered the letter?Ф
The lad had no answer for that question, or the hundred others of a similar theme which assailed him at every turn. He felt himself beginning to dread the completion of his mission more with every mile. He wished, and it was not a new wish, that he had never stepped forwardЧhe had regretted it as soon as he had done it.
But it was as if he had no will of his own. He felt compelled by something outside himself to respond to the dying knightТs plea. Perhaps the god Ariel had thrust him forward. Perhaps he had merely been caught up in the awful urgency of the moment. Besides, the omens had foretold ... Ah, but when did omens ever run true?
Eyes closed, face to the sun, Quentin munched his seed cake, pondering his fate. He suddenly felt a cool touch on his face, as if the sun had blinked. And high above him, he heard the call of a bird. Quentin cracked open one eye, and recoiled from the brightness of the light. Squinting fiercely and shading his face with an outstretched arm, Quentin at last determined the source of the call. At the same instant his heart seized like a clenched fist inside his chest.
There, flying low overhead was the worst omen imaginable: a raven circled just above him casting flittering shadows upon him with its wings.


THREE

THE BLUE, cloud-spattered sky had dissolved into a violet dome flecked with orange and russet wisps, and the shadows had deepened to indigo on the white snow before Quentin found his rest for the evening: the rough log hut of Durwin, the holy hermit of Pelgrin Forest.
The hermit was known among the lowly as one who gave aid to travelers and cared for the peasants and forest folk who often had need of his healing arts. He had once been a priest, but had left to follow a different god, so the local hearsay told. Beyond that nothing much was known about the hermit, except that when his help was required he was never far away. Some also said he possessed many strange powers and listed among his talents the ability to call up dragons from their caves, though no one had ever seen him do it.
It seemed strange to Quentin that Biorkis should know or recommend such a person to help himЧeven if the aid was only a bed for the night. For Biorkis had given him a silver coin to give the hermit, saying, УGreet this brother in the name of the god, and give him this token.Ф He had placed the coin in his hand. УThat will tell him much. And say that Biorkis sends his greetings,Ф he paused, Уand that he seeks a brighter light.Ф The priest had turned hurriedly away adding mostly to himself, УThat will tell him more.Ф
So, Quentin found himself in the fading twilight of a brilliant winter day. The hut was set off the road a short distance, but completely hidden from view, surrounded as it was by towering oaks, evergreens, and thick hedges of brambly furze. It took Quentin some time to locate the hut, even with the precise directions he had been given.
At last he found it, a low, squattish building which appeared to be mostly roof and chimney. Two small windows looked out on the world and a curious round-topped door closed the entrance. The homely abode was nestled in a hillock at the far end of a natural clearing which gave way to a spacious view of the sky overhead. The ground rose to meet the house on a gentle incline so that one had to climb slightly to reach the front door.
Quentin rode quietly up to the entrance of the hut. Sitting on the horse he could have leaped from his saddle onto the roof with ease. But he chose instead to slide off the animalТs broad back and rap with the flat of his hand on the heavy oaken door. He waited uncertainly; his hand had hardly produced any sound at all, and except for the smoke curling slowly from the stone chimney be would have suspected the place abandoned. But someone had been thereЧthe clearing was well trampled with the footprints of men and animals in the snow.
Quentin slipped the knightТs dagger from its place in his belt beneath his cloak. Holding it by the blade, he banged again on the door, this time with a more satisfactory result. He waited.
The sky was darkening quickly now; the sun was well down. He could feel the cold strengthening its hold on the land. No sound came from inside.
Plucking up his courage, Quentin tried the crude latch and found that with some force it moved. He placed his weight behind the door and shoved. The rough-hewn door swung upon its hinges and opened readily. Quentin stumbled quickly in with more ceremony than he had planned, bumping over the threshold as he entered.
The room was a good deal larger than he would have guessed from the outside, and it was sunken well below ground level. Stone steps led into the room which was warm and cozy, lit by the flickering fire left burning in the wide, generous fireplace. About the room stood an odd assemblange of hand-made furniture: chairs, tables large and small, stools, a large lumpy bed, and something which surprised Quentin and strangely delighted bun: books. Scrolls were heaped upon the tables and stuffed onto latticework shelves. More scrolls than he had ever seenЧeven in the library of the temple.
All this Quentin took in as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom of the dark room. He also saw the place was empty of its chief inhabitant. Durwin, apparently, was absent; perhaps on some mercy errand in the forest nearby. Quentin decided to slip in and await the hermitТs return, dragging a stool up to the fire burning low upon the hearth.
Quentin did not know whether he was awakened by the sound or the smell. Voices seemed to drone into his consciousness from far away. No words could be understood, only the monotonous buzz of two voices talking quietly, but with some enthusiasm. Close by the smell of food, warm and heavily laced with garlic, drifted into his awareness. He opened his eyes.
He was covered by his own cloak and laying a little away from the hearth. Two large figures sat near the fire. One knelt at the edge of the fire stirring a large black pot with a long-handled wooden spoon. The other sat on a stool with his back to him, revealing nothing of his features or stature. Both men were dressed in dark, flowing cloaks. As they talked, their long shadows danced on the far wall of the hut like the animated puppets in a shadow play.
Quentin rolled cautiously up onto his feet. The movement at once caught the eye of the man busy over the bubbling pot. УSo it is! Our young friend lives. I told you, Theido,Ф he winked at the other man who twisted round to regard the youngster with a quizzical eye. УI told you my soup would bring him round. EnchantedЧbah!Ф
Embarrassed to have fallen asleep at his post, and now to be the center of such attention, good-natured though it was, Quentin stepped timidly to the fire and addressed himself to both men simultaneously. УI am Quentin, at your service, sirs.Ф
УAnd we at yours,Ф came the standard reply.. He fumbled at his belt for the silver coin. УI bring this to you with greetings from Biorkis, senior priest of the High Temple.Ф The greeting sounded very stiff and formal, which suited Quentin, unsure as he was about what kind of reception he should expect. Yet, he knew as he placed the silver coin into DurwinТs hand that he had nothing to fear from this man.
DurwinТs face radiated a kindly light. Bright blue eyes winked out of a hide creased and lined like soft leather, and browned by the sun. Great bushy brown eyebrows, which seemed to have a life of their own, highlighted the hermitТs speech and were matched brush for bristle by a sprawling forest of a mustache and beard. Beneath his cloak he wore the simple robes of a priest, but grey rather than brown.
УSo it is! The old weasel sends you with this? Does he indeed?Ф The hermit turned the coin over in his hand thoughtfully. УWell, I donТt suppose it can be helped, can it?Ф Then he turned to Quentin and said, УThere is a wider path than many know, though IТm sure you donТt have an inkling what I mean.Ф Quentin stared back blankly. УNo, of course you donТt. Still, he sent you here,Ф the hermit mused to himself.
УDid he tell you anything else?Ф the holy man asked.
УOnly this: that he seeks a brighter light.Ф
At this both men exploded with laughter. The other, who had remained silent, was obviously following the exchange closely. УHe said that, did he?Ф Durwin laughed. УBy the godsТ beards, thereТs hope for him yet.Ф
Quentin stood mystified at this outburst. He felt awkward and a little used, relaying jokes of which he knew less than nothing to strangers who laughed at his expense. His frown must have shown them he did not approve of the levity, for Durwin stopped at once and offered the silver coin back to Quentin. УThis coin is the symbol of an expelled priest. See,Ф he dug into his clothing and brought out a silver com on a chain around his neck. УI have one, too.Ф
Quentin took the two corns and examined them; they were the same in every detail except that DurwinТs was older and more worn.
УThey are temple corns minted for special occasions and given to priests when they die or leave as payment for their service to the god. Some payment, eh?Ф
УYou used to be a priest?Ф Quentin wondered aloud.
УYes, of course. Biorkis and I are very good friends; we entered the temple together, became priests together. We grew up together.Ф
УEnough of old times,Ф said the stranger impatiently. УDurwin, introduce me to your guest in proper fashion.Ф
Quentin turned and eyed the dark man, ignored for the most part until now. He was above average in height, Quentin guessed, for squatting on the stool with his limbs folded across themselves he could not tell. His clothes were of a dark, indistinct color and consisted of a long cloak worn loosely over a close-fitting tunic and trousers of the same dark material as the rest. He wore a wide black belt at his waist to which was attached a rather large leather pouch.
But the manТs features commanded the better of QuentinТs attention. The face was keen in the firelight, bright-eyed and alert. A high forehead rose to meet a head of dark, thick hair swept back and falling almost to his shoulders. The manТs sharp nose thrust itself out over a firm mouth that opened upon a set of straight, white teeth. On the whole, the appearance bespoke a man of action and movement, of quick reflexes and perhaps quicker wits.
УQuentin,Ф the ex-priest was saying, Уthe man you are staring at is my good Mend Theido, a much welcome and often missed guest at this humble hearth.Ф
The man dipped his head low in acknowledgment of this courtesy. Quentin bowed stiffly from the waist out of respect. УI am glad to meet you young sir,Ф said Theido. УAn expelled priest, I have found, makes a good friend.Ф At this both men laughed again. And though he did not know why, Quentin laughed, too.