"Sean Russell - Moontide and Magic Rise 1 - World Without End" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Sean)

tain rose. Somewhere a physician stood by with his bag of dressings and instruments.

The man who had come to witness this renewal of the art of the duel was not one of the idly curious.
Unlike most of those who stood about the field, he had fought a duel, though it had been long ago. That was
one memory that did not fade. He knew what it felt like to turn away from oneтАЩs second and come
suddenly to a full understanding that this was no longer the practice floor. These could be the final moments
of oneтАЩs life. He had hefted a blade to test its balance and felt that second sharp stab of knowledge: what
he held in his hand was an implement to end life.

He had been fortunate and never killed a man. True gentlemen did not demand anotherтАЩs life to assuage
their pride, for pride was invariably at the center of these affairsтАФnot honor. The man in the carriage had
long ago seen past that particular myth.

On the field, too far off for him to discern detail, a tall, angular man had removed his frock coatтАФsnow
white linen against the green. The Baron Ipsword. Never graceful of movement, the baron appeared
puppetlike now, moving jerkily on the stage. And he stayed near to his supporters; too close, in fact. They
were all afraid.

The forces that had animated this puppet for so many years had fled. The aggressive pride, the jealousy,
and outright malice had been replaced by overpowering terror. The baron was not, it appeared, a
courageous manтАФwhich might explain why he was so vicious in attacking others. But a quick tongue would
not shield him today.

Beyond the site of the duel a thin covering of ground-mist still resisted the sun. It hung over the river,
obscuring the boles of poplars, like the vapor one would imagine rising from molten gold. A summer
morning so still the sky seemed to hold its breath. Then came the quick flick of a horseтАЩs tail and the
impatient shaking of harness.

The second swordsman could be seen now, stepping

away from his fellows. This would be the Viscount Elsworth, as tall as his opponent but athletic and
graceful. Even with poor vision, the man who watched could see these qualities. If Ipsword was a puppet,
this man was an acrobat, a tumblerтАФnimble, flexible, and strong. He cut the air three times quickly with his
blade, testing the balance of the weapon, and then pivoted, flexing one knee. Satisfied, he strode forward a
few paces and stopped, staring expectantly at the party huddled under the elms.

A good actor could express a great deal at a distance, even to those sitting at the furthest extremes of a
theater, but no actor could ever convey the complexity of emotion that Ipsword displayed as he walked
forward to duel; terrified, enraged, sullen, meek, almost ready to beg, prepared to do murder. Only enough
pride and arrogance remained to carry him to this place.

It was common, the man in the carriage thought, that the actors could not see the signs of impending
tragedy. тАЬPoor fool,тАЭ the man whispered. тАЬIt has almost nothing to do with him.тАЭ He shifted again on the
seat, the leather squeaking. If he was right in what he guessed, then first-blood would not end this affair.
Ipsword might have been carried here by the remains of his pride, but Elsworth was likely concerned with
neither pride nor honor.

тАЬPray that I am wrong,тАЭ the man who watched said aloud.

The two swordsmen saluted with their rapiers and then stepped to the guard position, one so tentatively that