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

can't fool them for a minute. I came out here to get away from the war, damn
it, not to get tangled up with shatra!"
"I wondered why you were here. Well, if you deserted, here's a chance to
get yourself a pardon; just help me get away from these three."
"I didn't..."
A voice called from outside, and the wizard stopped abruptly in
mid-sentence. The call was in the harsh northern tongue.
"Oh, damn it!" the hermit said. He reached for a thick leather-bound book
on one of the nearby shelves.
"Look, I'll see if I can slip out and lead them away," Valder said,
suddenly contrite. "I never meant to get anyone else into trouble." As he
spoke he got to his feet, leaving his boots behind and stumbling toward the
doorway. The wizard ignored him, fully occupied as he was in pawing
desperately through the fat, leather-bound volume and muttering to himself.
Valder leaned out the door, then jumped back in as a streak of red flame
flashed past, tearing through the twilight inches from his face.
Seconds later, three sharp smacks sounded, followed by an instant of
uncanny whistling screams as sorcerous projectiles tore across the interior of
the hut at roughly the level of a man's chest, narrowly missing Valder's arm
as he fell back. The sound ended in a second three-part snap as they exited
through the north wall.
Not quite sure how he got there, Valder found himself sprawled on the
hard-packed dirt of the hut floor. He looked up and realized that the wizard
was still standing, book in hand, staring nonplussed at the holes in his wall.
"Get down, wizard!" Valder called.
The wizard still stood motionless.
Concerned, Valder shouted, "Are you all right?"
"What?" The magician stirred uncertainly.
"Wizard, I think you had better get down, quickly; they're certain to try
again."
"Oh." Slowly, the wizard sank to his hands and knees, keeping the book
nearby. "What was that?" he asked, staring at the holes.
"I don't know," Valder answered. "Some damned northern sorcery."
The wizard peered at the soldier in the dim light of the flickering
fish-oil lamp and the last gray twilight; his scraggly beard almost reached
the floor, and his robe was bunched up around him, revealing bony ankles.
"Sorcery? I don't know any sorcery."
"Neither do I," Valder replied. "But they do." He jerked a thumb at the
south wall.
The wizard looked at the three entry holes. A wisp of smoke trailed up
from a book that had been pierced by one; the other two had gone through jars,
strewing shards of glass. "Protections," he said. "We need protections, ones
that will work against sorcery." He began desperately turning pages in his
book.
Valder watched him warily. No new assault had immediately followed the
projectiles, and that seemed like a good sign. The northerners might be
waiting for someone to move and provide them with a target, he thought. If so,
they would have a good long wait; he was not that foolish.
The wizard stopped, slammed a hand down on the open book, and looked at
Valder, anger and fear on his face. "What were those things?" he asked. "I