"Andre Norton - Quag Keep" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

 Under the brush of his brows his eyes held a red glint like those of an angry boar, and he thrust
out his hand and wrist to match Mile's. There, too, showed the glint of the dice, turning by themselves on
their almost invisible gimbals.
"I am Naile Fangtooth." His voice was close to a low grunting. And, as his lips moved to form the
words, they betrayed the reason for his self-naming-two teeth as great as tusks set on either side of his
lower jaw. He spoke as if compelled to, and Milo found that he answered as if he must offer some
password, lest the danger that made his flesh crawl break forth. Yet at the same moment he knew that his
sensed danger did not come from this mighty fighting machine.
"I am Milo Jagon. Sit you down, fighting man." He moved his shield, slid farther along the bench
to make room for the other.
"I do not know why, but-" Fangtooth's eyes no longer held those of the swordsman. Rather he
was looking with an open expression of perplexity at their bracelets. "But," he continued after a moment's
pause, "this is what I must do: join with you. And this"-he attempted to slip the bracelet from his thick
wrist but could not move it-"is what commands me-after some fashion of its own."
"We must be bespelled." Milo returned frankness with frankness. Berserkers seldom sought out
any but their own kind. Among their fellows, they had comradeships that lasted to the shores of death
and beyond, for the survivor of a fatal encounter was then aware always of only one driving force, the
need for revenge upon those who had slain his other self in battle-kinship.
The berserker scowled. "Spells-they have a stink to 'em. And, yes, swordsman, I can pick up
that stink a little. Afreeta"-the pseudo-dragon flickered its thread of tongue like a signal-"has already
sniffed it. Yet it is not, I think, one sent by a dark-loving devil." He had kept his voice low with a visible
effort as if his natural tone was more of a fullthroated roar.
Milo noted that the eyes beneath those heavy brows were never still, that Naile Fangtooth
watched the company in the room with as keen an eye for trouble as he himself had earlier. Those who
whispered together had not once made any move to suggest that the two were of interest to them. The
shabby druid licked his spoon, then raised the bowl to his lips to sup down the last of the broth it
contained. And two men wearing the shoulder badges of some merchant's escort kept drinking steadily
as if their one purpose in life was to see which first would get enough of a skinful to subside to the
rush-strewn, ill-swept floor.
"They-none of them-wear these." Milo indicated the bracelet on his own wrist. The dice were
now quiet on their gimbals. In fact when he tried to swing one with his fingernail, it remained as fixed as if
it could never move, yet it was the same one he had seen turn just before Naile had joined him.
"No." The berserker blinked. "There is something-something that nibbles at my mind as a squirrel
worries away at a nut. I should know, but I do not. And you, swordsman?" His scowl did not lighten as
he looked directly at Milo. There was accusation in it, as if he believed the swordsman knew the secret
of this strange meeting but was purposefully keeping it to himself.
"It is the same," Milo admitted. "I feel I must remember something-yet it is as if I beat against a
locked door in my mind and cannot win through that to the truth."
"I am Naile Fangtooth." The berserker was not speaking to Milo now, but rather affirming his
identity as if he needed such assurance. "I was with the Brethem when they took the Mirror of Loice and
the Standard of King Everon. It was then that my shield brother, Engul Wideband, was cut down by the
snake-skins. Also it was there later that I picked Afreeta from a cage so she joined with me." He raised a
big hand and gently stroked the back of the dragon at a spot between its continually fluttering wings.
"These things I remember-yet-there was more..."
"The Mirror of Loice . . ." Milo repeated. Where had he heard of that before? He raised both
fists and pressed them against his forehead, pushing up the edge of the helmet he wore. The edges of the
two thumb rings pressed against his skin, giving hitn a slight twinge of pain. But nothing answered in his
memory.
"Yes." There was pride now in his companion's voice. "That was a mighty hosting. Ores, even the
Spectre of Loice herself, stood against us. But we had the luck of the throws with us for that night. The