"Factotum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cornish D M)

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sabrine adept(s) also called percerdieres, lehrechtlers or spathidrils; said to be the cousins of the sagaars, originating long ago in some foreign northern land. Revering swordplay as the sagaars revere the dance, some go so far as to almost worship their swords, ancient therimoirs of forgotten make, though they have no time for devotion to constant motion as the sagaars do.The best of them, those warranted to teach, are known as sabrine magists or master sword-players, and will gather about them a loose association of adepts, serving together for a common ideal. "GOODLY peoples," the rouse-clerk cried into the stunned hush from his safe seat in the lowest stalls, "I give you the Handsome Grackle!" He flung a dramatic gesture at the frighteningly alien and ungainly creature that awaited its doom in the rousing-pit. "What be your stakes?"

At this the watchers burst with the dispute of wagers, numbered white pugs waving as results were speculated and amounts offered. In the din it was still clear: most seemed convinced of the Derehund's victory.

Fixing his attention on the creature dubbed the Handsome Grackle, Rossamund could well understand why, for the creature staggered in palsied jerks into the middle of the pit. Staying back from the perforated fence, it turned quickly from side to side, both tentacles reaching out and up, rippling as if they were testing the very air. Feeling a delicate flutter in his head like the gentlest sending of a talented wit, Rossamund knew the thing was looking, searching by means unknown to find an escape. There was something about its parched, knobbled skin and bizarre physiology that spoke more of the vinegary deeps than of the bosky dells or forsaken pastures. As the beast twisted, the young factotum could see in the center of its torso a weird, vertical mouth quivering, making great "O's" as if it were gasping for breath.

Transfixed, Rossamund swallowed at the clench in his throat, his hand already grasping for a potive.

A shriek of clashing metal silenced the crowd.

With a penetrating boom! the iron curtain dropped and the foes were immediately confronted. In an instant Skarfithin was all hackles and maddened, shuddering growls. Saliva drooled from its gnashing fangs; its small red-shot maniac eyes rolled. Without a face the Handsome Grackle seemed little affected: its only reaction was to bend its tentacles and wave them slightly at its canine foe.

Without a backward crouch the selthound sprang, leaping the entire gap between it and the Grackle. There was a frightful crunching like the chewing of a fresh apple as the dog bit deep into the startled monster's left arm, the momentum of the leap bringing both crashing to the hardened dirt. The Grackle did not make a sound as it fell, no cry of agony or shout of fear. Even if it had, none would have heard it as the willing audience let out a roar of delight at its fall. Gripping alien flesh in its mighty maw, Skarfithin shook its head violently until the whole form of the Grackle rocked. Finally some piece of it tore free, leaving a deep purple gash in its arm. The Derehund was not intent on morsels, and struck again and then again. With every chunk of seltling flesh ripped away, the dog's assaults grew more frenzied, not allowing the mauled and flailing Grackle time to right itself.

"Come on, ye mighty daggy, rend the mucky salamander!" were the shouts from the lower stalls.

"Huzzahrah! Mother and the boys'll be supping hearty a'morrow!"

"I declare, bravo! Smash the brute to flinders! My entire purse is on your head!"

"Bravo!" came the cries from the high stalls; even Rookwood was calling out with babbling gusto.

Rossamund could scarce stand it. Without looking, he began counting through the slots of his digitals.

Suddenly the Grackle made a huffing, almost keening cry as, with a great thrust of its limbs, it threw Skarfithin back and sent the dog tumbling to the floor. Before Rossamund's eyes and all the wagerers' with him, the monster's ghastly purple wounds began to ripple, the flesh bubble and the wounds close.

It's mending itself! Rossamund stilled his face to contain his delight.

"It heals!" some observant soul across the way echoed, and a hush momentarily dampened the throng.