"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Ethshar 1 - The Misenchanted Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

fine view of rolling waves and crying gulls.
Valder saw no weapons, but that didn't mean the old man had none; he had
no way of knowing what might be inside the hut. The hat and robe did seem to
resemble an archaic wizard's costume, and wizards of any sort could be
dangerous.
He saw nothing to indicate the man's nationality, unless he counted the
fact that the Northern Empire had very few wizards, archaic or otherwise --
but then, the garb could easily be that of some obscure variety of sorcerer or
other northern magician. He debated with himself what action he should take.
He was not about to turn and leave, with the patrol still somewhere behind
him. He could approach by stealth, try to take the old man by surprise, but
that would appear definitely hostile and might cost him an ally, and, with the
rustling grass, stealth might not be possible. Far better, he decided, to make
his presence known and then see how the hut-dweller reacted.
With that resolve, he stood up straight, waved a hand in the air, and
called, "Hello, there!"
The old man started violently, grabbed at his rope belt, and looked about
wildly.
"Hello! Over here!" Valder called.
Spotting him at last, the man got to his feet and stared at Valder in
open astonishment. "Who in Hell are you!" he demanded.
He spoke in Ethsharitic; Valder relaxed somewhat and looked the old man
over.
He was short and scrawny, with unkempt white hair hacked off raggedly at
shoulder length and a messy beard. The gray robe he wore was clean but badly
worn, with faded patches at each elbow and faint stains here and there. The
pointed gray hat had fallen unnoticed to the ground when its owner arose. A
rope belt encircled his waist and carried a large leather pouch on one side, a
sheathed dagger on the other, where it had been hidden from Valder before; the
old man's right hand rested on the hilt of the knife. His feet were bare, his
eyes wide, and his mouth open with surprise.
He did not look dangerous, despite the dagger; for one thing, the weapon
was still sheathed, where an experienced fighter would have drawn it
automatically. Valder guessed the man to be a hermit, someone who hadn't seen
another human being in years. His amazement at Valder's presence was very
evident.
"I'm lost and alone," Valder replied.
The old man stared at him for a moment, then called, "Didn't ask that."
He sounded peevish; his surprise was fading into irritation at Valder's
intrusion.
 "I'm a soldier; I got separated from my unit. You don't expect me to give
my name, do you? For all I know you're an enemy magician; if I tell you my
name, you might have power over me."
The old man squinted, nodded an acknowledgment of the truth of Valder's
words, and then motioned with his left hand for Valder to approach. His right
hand remained on the hilt of his knife. "Come here, soldier," he said.
With his own right hand on the hilt of his sword, Valder made his way
through a few feet of grass and several yards of mud and reeds and eventually
splashed up out of the marsh onto the little island of dry ground surrounding
the hut. He stood waiting while the old man looked him over carefully. As he