"Zimmer,.Paul.Edwin.-.A.Gathering.of.HerosUC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zimmer Paul Edwin)

A GATHERING OF HEROES 11
"Being from the continent yourself," said Arthfayel, "you may not know how deadly the war-scythe of the Curranach may beЧ"
"I've seen it used in Airaria," said Istvan.
"Ah, have you indeed?" White teeth flashed in the black beard. "During this last Raiding Season, no doubt. I hear tell of a grim battle there against Norian Raiders, and of great deeds done by your kinsman, Istvan the Archer."
Istvan looked away, wordless, but Tahion's voice cut in. "There is another islander here," he said, gesturing toward the shadows near the back of the hall, "whose face is not known to me, nor is his plaid familiar. Do you know him?" As Arthfayel turned to see, Istvan shot Tahion a silent look of gratitude.
The third islander sat alone in a far, dark corner of the room, away from the fire, and with no candles near. He was a short, heavy-set man, black-haired, with skin as brown as ale, and the dark checks of his tartan robe were set aslant, in strange diamond shapes. He seemed ill at ease, gripping a short spear or staff in his brown fist, and casting wary glances around him.
Arthfayel's brow crinkled, and he turned back with a puzzled shake of his head.
"He must be from far away indeed, from the Duvgall Islands, or beyond. His sword is straight, or I might guess his Clan some kin to the McDymio. But I do not know the plaid. It is not the MacRu nor the MacArik, but those are the only Clans from that far away I have seen."
"Is there no rumour of any such traveler in Elthar?"
"None, unless it be that brawler, Karik Mac Ulatoc," Arthfayel snorted. "He is not one the Elf-Lords are likely to summon!" He rubbed roughly at his beard. "I wonder, nowЧ?"
"But who is that, at the table beyond?" Istvan asked > quickly, waving.a hand at the black-bearded man he had ;; passed on his way to the table.
|; "Yon black-beprded bull of a man? That is Fergus Mac f. Trenar, the Champion of the King of Elantir. Ruro Halfbreed, if famed wizard-smith of the dwarves, wrought that glittering ^ sword of heroes, Aibracan, that Fergus had from his father, and with which he has again and again stood off invaders from the Forest of Demons. His defence of the Ford of
12 Paul Edwin Zimmer
Avabor will be sung while the world lasts. Only he and Carroll Mac Lir survived the battle of Girt Fullav."
"And the group of forest-runners, there beyond?"
Arthfayel turned to look: there were five of them, naked but for kilts in varying patterns of green and brown. Bundles of javelins lay by their chairs, and small, dark shields. One wore a Hastur-blade, like Istvan's own, the rest, short stabbing swords. One had a bow and a quiver of arrows, and all had long knives and short-handled throwing axes.
"Ah, I keep hoping that my foster-brother Anarod will be here," said Arthfayel, turning back. "The tall, lean one, with the catfish moustache and his brown hair tied up atop his head, is Ronan Mac Carbar. There was a monster like a great worm lived in a mountain tarn at Galenor's border: slaying it was a notable deed. That ugly, gnarled, red-bearded, hairy man, with shoulders broad as any dwarfs on him, that is Dair Mac Eykin. He bears a Hastur-blade, and has studied at Elthar. Men say he can walk through a thicket of dried leaves and make no sound. The slender, dark-haired boy next to him is Finloq Mac Alangal. It is said that he is half-elf, or perhaps a Changeling, and an elf indeed: certain it is he is still beardless, though long grown to a man's years."
"He is as good as an elf in the woods, surely," said Tab ion. "He is of my kindred of Clan Gileran, and also an Adept of Elthar.''
"Aye, and he has lived near elvish country all his life," said Arthfayel. He shook his head. "It still troubles me that Anarod should not be here. Though indeed, he lives now nearer to Rath Tintallain than to this place. Ah, well. That little dark-bearded man next to Finloq is Ailil Mac Ailil, and a good friend and a dangerous enemy he is. He has been a good friend to Anarod: the two of them together went into the dread valley of Baelgor to rescue the stolen daughter of Undaetur. I think it may be his brother Cahir who is next to him, but it could be Colin Mac Fiacron, they are allЧ"
"Here I am at last!" It was the grey-haired woman, but this time she bore no cups. "I fear the whiskey's gone, too. There is a little wine, still, and . . ."
"Wine then," said Istvan, laying a gold piece on the table. "What food have you left?"
"We are plucking chickens, to be roasted and stewed, and there are hams, I thinkЧ"
A GATHERING OF HEROES 13
' 'We may have to leave before there is time for anything to cook," said Tahion. "Midnight is near upon us, best have something quick. Have you cheese, perhaps?"
"And a loaf of bread," said Arthfayel, "if any is left."
"There may not be," said the woman. "A pitcher of wine, then, for the three of you? And a wheel of cheese, and bread if there is any. I'll be back." She took the gold piece, bit it, and dashed off.
"Ah, now, where were we?" Arthfayel said, leaning back in his chair. ' 'Had I spoken of Cahir Mac Ailil and Colin Mac Fiacron?"
"Who is the big blond man, there at the next table?" asked Istvan. Arthfayel looked, and his teeth flashed in his beard.
"Ah! I was wondering when you would ask about him! They say you Seynyoreans are accustomed to heroes, yet were your famous kinsmen Istvan and Raquel DiVega here, and all the great heroes of your continent, Birthran of Kadar, Ironfist Arac, or Tugar of Thorban, they could not outshine the glory of that one! Look well, Seynyorean, for you are never likely to see a greater hero than Carroll, the son of Lir.
"Bards sing of him that his sword is like blue lightning unleashed upon the wall of shields." Arthfayel almost chanted the words. "Too many to tell, the deeds of Carroll Mac Lir." But he looked as though he were about to try.
"And what of the dark man at the table with him?" Istvan asked quickly.
"The one with the harp, you mean? Ah, that is only Cormac Mac Angdir, the harper. He will be the envy of every bard in Y'gora. For he is a good man of his hands, as well as an Adept of Elthar; a hero of many deeds who deserves a place at this gathering. And surely that will give him matter for song such as few harpers ever have."
Poets! There was no escaping them, Istvan thought. There was always one around somewhere, to pester you with questions and get all the answers wrong, and weave your name into dieir songs with the most outrageous lies . . .
"Luck is with you tonight!" The grey-haired woman appeared out of the crowd, and set down a hot, steaming loaf of bread. "No butter, though, but here's your cheeseЧhalf a wheelЧand the wine."
She set the things on the table and vanished into the crowd once more. Arthfayel cut himself a generous slice from the
14 Paul Edwin Zimraer
loaf, and reached for the cheese. Tahion poured wine for Istvan and then Arthfayel, and finally for himself.
"It was Cormac who made the song," Arthfayel said after a moment, "telling how Carroll Mac Lir escaped from the slave-pits in Sarlow." He smiled and Istvan guessed he was about to sing.
"Who is the young man in the armour there, at the table with the dwarves?" Istvan gestured, and Arthfayel craned his neck to look.
"Garahis of Ordan," Arthfayel said. "A knight of Cairanor. He is young, but his life has been spent in battle along Cairanor's northern border. When dark things from the forest swarmed into the Border Kingdom, three years ago, he rode with scarce a hundred men to the aid of Monacard." He seemed about to say more, but Istvan forestalled him.
"What of the dwarves? Are they heroes, too, or are they here on some other business?"
Arthfayel blinked at him. Tahion covered a smile. Arthfayel opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, listening.
All around them the murmur of speech died.
CHAPTER TWO
Secret Paths of the Elves
At first, in the sudden stillness, they heard only the crackle of the fire and the crying of the wind.
Yet Istvan felt a sudden prickle on his skin, and a lifting of his heart.
Music began, weirdly sweet: music such as no mortal man can play. Unbearable longing was in that music, and an unquenchable joy that somehow mingled with infinite, heartbreaking sorrow.
The heavy oaken door was suddenly and soundlessly open. Istvan blinked tears from his eyes, and stared. A figure stood outlined in crystal moonlight.
At first Istvan took him for a man, black-haired and beardless, slender yet tall. But as he stepped into the light of the room, Istvan saw the fine, fragile bones of the face, and the wide, ageless, glittering eyes, and knew him for an elfЧbig-boned for one of his kind, his shoulders broad even for a man. ^^