"Juliet E. McKenna - Einarinn 2 - The Swordsman's Oath" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKenna Juliet E)

One of the vermin had my bridle before I could gather reins or wits. The startled
horse reared backward, and as I felt its hooves slip in the mire of the sodden road I
kicked my feet free of the irons, barely keeping my own footing as I leaped clear.
Shaking and sweating, the horse snapped at the grabbing hands of the bandits and
escaped up the road, leaving me facing the filthy gang of them.
"Pay your toll, pal, and we'll let you pass," the foremost said, grinning widely,
blackened stumps in his slimy gums.
I shook my head at the leader. These sorry discards from some defeated militia
weren't going to be much of a challenge. They were all gaunt and hungry, matted
and filthy, driven to scavenging like desperate dog-foxes after a long winter of lean
pickings. Still, desperation makes for dangerous men, I reminded myself.
I backed down the rutted road a few paces, to draw them out far enough to be
sure there were only four of them. Lescari, cowshit between their ears as well as
between their toes since I could now be certain they had put no one behind me to
cut off any retreat. I could certainly outpace them if I chose to turn tail and run, but I
didn't fancy trying to make my way through the unknown muddy byways off the
highroad. As my hand moved toward my sword-hilt, parchment in my pocket
crackled, reminding me of my duty to my patron's orders.
Besides, I didn't feel inclined to run; Dast's teeth, why should I? I wanted my
horse back too. It was a good beast from Messire's own stable and I'd been riding
it no more than seven or eight leagues a day to husband its strength.
"Sorry, friend. You didn't say whose authority you had to levy a toll." I kept my
voice neutral.
"This is all the authority I need!" He struck a challenging pose with his notched
sword, evidently aiming to impress in his rusty breastplate fringed with inadequate
chainmail.
His pack grinned, all bold in remnants of ill-fitting armor.
More fool them; the leather of my thick buff coat covered a layer of metal plates
without the vulnerabilities I was assessing in my opponents as they smirked. I don't
wear a hauberk; it attracts notice and my usefulness to my Prince depends on going
unremarked. I laid a hand to my own sword. It sparkled silver on the pommel, the
polished scabbard bright in a watery gleam of fugitive sunlight now that the rain had
stopped.
"What's your charge?" I asked, face calm, mind anticipating the next moves. I
spend long seasons trying to teach the militia raised for the House of D'Olbriot that
there's no virtue in fighting if you can avoid it, but Lescaris learn the opposite in their
leading strings, from their warring dukes down, to the endless grief of their torn and
bleeding land.
The leader finally registered my unfamiliar accent. "Tormalin man, are you? Fancy
words, fancy horse and blade. What you've got in your purse, that'll be the rate for
the road!"
Evidently a man with no more sense than Dastennin gave a flatfish. "I'll give you
the price of a meal." I smiled without humor. "You can thank the Lord of the Sea for
that."
The other three looked tempted by the thought of food they could pay for rather
than a fight for their dinner, as I had suspected. The leader scowled, unwilling to
back down. "We'll spare a coin to Talagrin at the next shrine, when we've selled
your horse and your gear, thank the Hunter for sending us a plump pigeon ripe for
the plucking."
"You want to try for my feathers?" I drew my sword. It slid gleaming from the