"John Morressy - Conhoon and the Fairy Dancer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morressy John)

JOHN MORRESSY

CONHOON AND THE FAIRY DANCER

LIKE ALL SOLITARY MEN, the wizard Conhoon of the Three Gifts had his likes and
dislikes. The latter far outnumbered the former.

High among his likes was the unhurried consumption of a bowl of porridge every
morning, an occasion for meditation upon his grievances and the decline of the
world beyond his walls. Chief among Conhoon's dislikes was the disturbance of
this or any other aspect of his life. When on a fine spring morning he heard a
heavy tread approaching his cottage, he scowled into his almost emptied bowl.
Nearer and nearer came the steps, measured and confident. There could be no
mistake: a visitor was about to arrive. With a muttered grumble of annoyance,
Conhoon scooped up the last spoonful of porridge, gulped it down, wiped his
mouth on the back of his hand, wiped his hand, in turn, on his beard, and
dried
his fingers on his shirt in case a quick spell requiring digital dexterity
should become necessary.

He rose, still muttering, and started for the door. Before he reached it,
three
heavy blows set his house to trembling. Irritation blossomed into indignation.
Pausing only to growl a quick protective spell, Conhoon drew the latch, flung
open the door, and scowled upon a man tall in stature, magnificent in
appearance, bold in bearing: a hero, and no mistake.

The stranger was splendidly attired in fine linen and wool and supple leather.
A
golden torc hung at his neck, and golden bands encircled his sculpted biceps
and
powerful wrists. With his left hand cocked casually against his hip, he stood
with the other holding his spear at a jaunty angle of approximately forty
degrees from the vertical. Undaunted by the wizard's fierce glare, he looked
into Conhoon's face with composure.

Conhoon was no more impressed by heroes than he was by anyone else. "And who
are
you, with a knock at the door that near shook my house down?" he demanded in
welcome.

The stranger announced himself in a voice that most people would consider
pleasant to hear. It was deep and resonant, and contained no hint of affront
at
his gruff reception. "I am Corbal the Bold, greatest hero of this land," said
he.

Conhoon looked him over suspiciously. "I have heard that name. It's Brugal's
boy
you are, him of the unfailing bow and unerring arrows."