"Andre Norton & Lackey, Mercedes - Elvenbane 3 - Elvenborn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

anything other than a set battle. Where was the right balance of
caution and initiative? Nothing in all of his books and studies
had dealt with that magic formula.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, but a headband
under his helm kept it from dripping into his eyes. He felt a brief
flash of superiority as he climbed the steep and rock-strewn
slope before him with no sense of strain, not even an increase
in his breathing. How many of the pampered Great Lords would
be able to do as much? Certainly he was sweating, but he
wasn't in the least tired, and if at last he managed to bring his
skirmishers to a fight, he would be as ready for action as any of
them.
Senses alert for the least sign of warning, he picked his way
one careful step at a time through the sparse underbrush of the
forest. His men spread out in his wake, carefully following his
example. His sword was out and ready in his left hand; that
would give him a little advantage against an opponent, should
one suddenly appear before him, but not much. The enemy
fighters lurking somewhere ahead knew him and some had
fought hand-to-hand against him before.
The enemy--all that he knew for certain was that they were
here in his patch of pristine, old-growth forest, and that their
numbers were equal to his. The most logical place to find them,
the weathered remains of an ancient fortification, had been
empty. He assumed now that they probably planned to set up
an ambush for his skirmishers somewhere; they knew he was
coming, and he doubted that they intended to make a pitched
battle of it. In their place, he wouldn't.
His advantage was that he knew these woods as well as his
opponents did; he should, since everything for leagues around
here belonged to him. He had made a mental tally of all the
obvious places for an ambush, and he hoped he could
approach such places from unexpected angles, and with luck,
catch the foemen by surprise.
An ambushed ambush--hardly sporting, I suppose. He smiled,
knowing the expression was hidden by his helm. Well, first he
would have to pull this off. Then he would worry about whether
it was "sporting"--assuming he'd won the encounter, of course.
After all, it is the victor who writes the histories, and he is the
one who gets to determine what is fair, after the fact.
A movement to one side caught his eye; only one of his men,
trying to shoo away an irritating fly with a minimum of obvious
movement. They knew better than to slap at insects, lest the
sound betray them to the enemy, and he felt sorry for his
human fighting-men. For all that he sweated as heavily as any
one of them, insects seldom plagued elves, perhaps because
elves, not native to this world, did not smell "right" to the pesky
bugs.
Kyrtian froze and raised his hand to signal to his men to do
likewise, as he thought he caught a murmur of voices up ahead.