"Michael Moorcock - The Runestaff 3 - The Sword of The Dawn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers

were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of
his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall
but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.

"A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where
did you steal the sword, beggar?"

He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then with-
drew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and
Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to
his face and discovered that it bled.

"Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the
stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make your-
self my prisoner."

Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A
worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much
I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I
heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he
lunged at the masked man.

His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry
that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon bare-
ly managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in
the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his
position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each
recognising in the other a true master of the sword.

They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither
giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon de-
cided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back
down the bank towards the water.

Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked
man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved
even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was
forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.

Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, go-
ing down on one knee. The other sprang forward to
thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat
striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell
from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and
placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the
other's throat.

"Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled