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

"All now is ready." Men began to gather their weapons and move toward the door. Istvan gulped down the rest of his wine, and cut himself a large piece of cheese. Arthfayel and Tahion divided the rest, and Tahion cut the loaf into thirds. Istvan slung his shield on his back and the bag of mail over one shoulder, and moved away from the table thinking of the unfinished wine he had paid for ...
"Tell me, Karik Mac Ulatoc," Ringion Hastur said loudly, "who was it bade you to this gathering?" l
The brown-skinned islander in the strangely slanted tartan stopped short, only a few feet in front of Istvan: brown knuckles whitened on the wooden shaft of the strange weapon he carried.
"IЧI was with Fithil of the Curranach whenЧwhen one ofЧyour kin came toЧsummon him. I heardЧ" the islander's stammer hinted at a voice normally deep, but shrill now. "ЧThey said you needed warriors ..."
"Indeed, Karik," Ringion Hastur said, "you are brave enough, to be sure. But your weapons are all of plain steel or bronze or wood, and little use against the enemies we face. And you are young yet, and have not gained the skill or the
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experience of the others. Do not let your pride weave a shroud for you."
Black eyes blazed as the islander straightened. Istvan studied the strange weaponЧa kind of spear, perhaps, since one end did sport a kind of spike of bronze, and back-curved hooking blades on the shaft below.
"I'm as good a man as any here!" Karik cried, his voice shrill. The black eyes glared around wildly. "Who do I have to fight to prove my skill?" His eyes fixed on Istvan. "You?"
The bronze spike leaped at Istvan's eyes.
For a moment Istvan thought he had merely dodged. Then the end of the spear fell, neatly sheared through, to clatter to the floor, and he felt his sword's weight in his hand.
Control! he thought, angry at himself.
The brown man stood frozen, staring at the shortened stick in his hand. Istvan stepped back, blade poised and ready.
"IЧI am sorry," Istvan heard himself say. "IЧI did not mean toЧ"
With a shout of rage, the islander threw down the useless piece of wood, and reached for his sword-hilt. There was a sudden blur, and Tuarim Mac Elathan gripped Karik's arm.
"Hold!" The elfs voice rang with compelling music. Istvan's spine shivered. "There is no need for anyone to fight. We have no wish to turn away any who would help. You are welcome to come with us. But do not fight with your comrades in war! There will be foes enough for all!"
The islander's breath hissed out in a long gasp. He seemed dazed, black eyes staring. Istvan sheathed his blade, and, dropping to one knee, lifted the bronze-tipped wood from the floor and offered it to the brown man. "You should be able to repair this," he said. "We will be riding through a forest." Karik took the half from Istvan's hand without a word: a curious smile played about his mouth. His eyes stared into empty air.
The music grew louder, more insistent.
"Come!" Tuarim's voice wove into the fairy music. "It is time to ride!"
The music enfolded them, and they were moving, dancing through the door. Karik Mac Ulatoc moved like a man caught up in a dream.
Istvan found himself suddenly outside. Stars gleamed bright against a clear deep velvet sky, and tiny moons wandered
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between them. Domri hung gigantic above the hills, its pale light glowing mystically on the snowy coats of graceful, deer-dainty horses.
Saddles were on them, but no bridles. Istvan caught his breath. He had heard strange tales of such horses: tales that they could run forever, tireless, at speeds no mortal horse oould match. Some said that they could run over water or fly through the air, but that he had never believed. Some said that they were elves shape-changed, not horses at all; others said they were an immortal breed the elves had brought from their own world. And many said such tales were only legend, and no such creatures existed at all.
The sight had stopped him, but now the music plucked at his nerves, hurrying him toward the horses. He shook his head, trying to fight the compulsion he could feel so thick around him.
Why were the elves driving them thus? Why could they not let a man's will alone?
Stubbornly, he held his feet to a slow walk. A man jolted into him, another swerved and danced 'round him at the last second. His heart beat fast, and he could feel his nerves twitching as they tried to set his feet to dancing, leaping with the whirling music of blending pipes and horns, and shrilling strings . . .
His feet took two dancing steps he had not willed.
"Istvan!" Tahion's voice cried above the music. "They mean no harm! But haste is needed now! Do not fight them!"
Speed, Istvan thought, and let the music take him. He saw < Tahion balanced on the back of rearing white glory. The horse's hooves came down, it neighed, and became a blur, a streak in the moonlight.
He was the last now, well behind the others. Ahead he saw men and dwarves moving, dancing to their horses, feet all pounding to the music's rhythm, weaving in and out, leaping like brown leaves onto the horses' backs . . . The best-drilled company of Kadarin cavalry could never mount and ride so quickly.
A milk-white horse rushed toward him, mane and tail flowing like sea froth. The music carried him straight into its path. Fear flared, but he let his body trust the elves, and a wave of music launched him into the air and set him in the saddle. His hands found a grip in the fine silk of its mane. It
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neighed three times, shaking itself; and then the ground was rolling away under its hooves.
There was sudden wind in his face, rich with the smell of grass and leaves. His heart still pounding with the music's pulse, he gripped the saddle tightly with his thighs, carefully fitted his feet into the stirrups, and, twisting, slid the saddlebags from his shoulders down to the horse's rump.
The sky was better to watch than the blurred ground: never had he seen it pass so quickly under a horse's hooves. He looked up at the glittering stars. A bright, tiny moon had wandered between the bull's head and shoulders, and the stars around were dimmed by its light.
Other horses were dim white shapes: the music slowly fading behind. He became aware of the uncanny smoothness of the creature's gait.
Trees reared up and before he had time to think, they were in among them. His fingers tightened in the long mane, expecting at any moment to be struck from the saddle by some low branch. Gleaming horses appeared and vanished in moonbeam and tree shadow. He heard the shrill pulsing cry of tree frogs, and the sleepy plaint of a disturbed bird.
Suddenly, in the moonlight he saw what seemed a solid wall of underbrush: the elf-horse's race toward it never slowed. He had only time to close his eyes and let go the mane to fling his arms before his face.
Rustling filled his ears: strange smells rode on a' warm wind. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, cautiously peeled his hands from his face. Darkness around him: tiny patches of dim light flickered, flew past and were gone.
He closed his eyes again and fell forward against the horse's neck, listening to that mysterious leafy rustle, and smelling the sweet horse smell as he tangled his hands in its mane.
There was no sound but the whisper of leaves and the scraping of branches, and the occasional crash of a startled animal. He kept listening for something else, but a long time passed before he realized with a chill, that the sound he strained to hear, but did not, was the sound of hooves.
How long that dark ride went on he never knew; it seemed endless ages he lay pressed against the horse's neck, listening to leaves. But at last the feel of the breeze changed: the leafy
A GATHERING OF HEROES 23
murmur faded, and he opened his eyes on a blaze of moon and star.
A white elf-horse flashed past, a slender figure clinging to the saddleless, smooth back. Others appeared, gleaming against the dark ground, weaving among scattered trees and huge, shapeless boulders. Men crouched warily in their saddles, looking uncertainly around. But among them elves rode bareback, in wild mood. One sprang up and stood swaying on his steed's bare back, while high voices laughed and jested all around. A sleepy bird, disturbed, called softly from a tree.
A deeper voice laughed at Istvan's side. Turning, he found Prince Tahion riding with him, his horse matching Istvan's stride for stride.
"Ah, now, this will be a merry ride! It is Oranfior Mac Robind about to play! He is one of the great pipers of the elves; the best, they say, of any born in this world. Some say that even among the Eldest, only Ciallglind and Riarbind surpass his skill. He comes to the Elfwoods sometimes, and I have seen wild beasts dance when he plays, and have heard him pipe men's souls into dreams that would teach wisdom to fools. I think Tuarim wishes to cheer the harper."
Among the rushing horses ahead, Istvan saw tall drone pipes jutting above a rider's shoulder, and as Tahion's voice stilled, a deep note roared. Out of it rose the sweet high trill of the chanter, a rapid string of darting notes, in a wildly warbling air.
The standing elf began to dance, bare feet flashing sure atop the horse's moving back. A fiery joy in Istvan's veins made him suddenly twenty years younger, and as.he saw other elves spring up to dance on their horse's backs, a mad desire began to grow to stand and dance himself . . .