"Mickey Zucker Reichert - Bifrost 01 - Godslayer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichert Mickey Zucker)

where the arena towered over the quarters of guards and servants. Finely-dressed courtiers strode in
regal pairs. Peasants in worn homespun crowded toward the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the
combatants. Armored guards tried to maintain some order in the milling chaos with little success.



From habit, Bramin checked his own excitement. As he walked toward the arena, he took his staff in
hand. It would help him through the throng, for men rightly shied from its touch. He used it like a walking
stick, though none would question his youth or vigor; even those too foolish to fear the power of his
magic could not fail to notice the unearthly aura of evil inherited from his father.



The citizens of Forste-Mar shrank from the slim, dark wizard who strode purposefully to the door of the
stadium. Despite the demoralizing inevitability of combat, Bramin gleaned some amusement from their
awe. Years ago, these same men and women would have spit on him.



The guards gestured Bramin inside, and the crowd closed in behind him, hoping for a glimpse of the
combat. Noblemen lined the balconies and applauded politely at his entrance. Bramin leaned his staff
against the lowest stands, walked to center ring, and examined his audience. He raised a hand in greeting
to the king and queen. Ashemir waved,then shrugged in apology. Halfrija's seat was unoccupied, and
Bramin supposed she was coaching her champion. The thought formed a painful ball in his throat. He felt
utterly alone. Now, before Forste-Mar's masses, Silme's reassurances rang as hollow as in youth when
she swore her playmates did not hate him even as they hurled rocks and challenges. Anxiety allowed
Bramin to forget the times she had stroked his hair until he ceased to tremble. He knew nothing of how
she had confronted his tormentors with their inhumanity and made them blush with humility.



Thus reminded of the townspeople's hostility, Bramin's will faltered. The noise of the peasants changed
pitch. The door swung open, and Halfrija entered. She wore a suit of leather far too large for her tiny
frame. She grasped a long sword in both fists, and it leaned awkwardly.
 The audience erupted in riot. The queen fainted. All color drained from the king, and he sat, rigid, like an
ivory statue. Bramin met Halfrija halfway into the ring. "What are you doing?" he demanded.



Her eyes blazed with madness. "I am my champion. Kill or be killed," she chanted like a priest before a
sacrifice. She thrust the sword clumsily.



Bramin's mouth went painfully dry. He sidestepped and caught both of Halfrija's wrists, drawing her too
close for combat. If anyone in the audience spoke or moved, Bramin did not notice. His blood-colored
eyes probed the princess for answers, but true to his word he avoided magic. "Halfrija ..."