"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

"No." She managed a tired smile. "Not yet, anyway. It's just that I'd like to keep moving. This hole in the ground makes me nervous."

But there was that in her voice that frightened Tobin. When the squire had left them, Feylin knelt and whispered, "I missed Dannar at first—I went all the way to the last person in the line. But while I was back there I smelled smoke, Tobin. We've got to get out of here in case it gets thicker."

Stronghold in flames? Impossible. But as Feylin helped her to her feet and gave her over to the guard's care, Tobin felt a stinging in her eyes.

*

Isriam had wept during the night, but was too proud to acknowledge it. Daniv, his companion as Rohan's squire, rode beside him in the dawn and made no remark on his friend's swollen eyes and thickened voice. He had cried himself dry the day Sioned had told him his father was dead and he had become Prince of Syr. He had no tears left, not even for the friends they had lost yesterday in battle. Isriam would have to weep for them both.

"There's a sand cloud coming up from the south," Isriam said. "We'd better go have a look."

"Let's," Daniv agreed, reining his tired horse around. "Goddess, what I wouldn't give for a tubful of water right now—though I wouldn't know whether to bathe in it or drink it."

"You fly high," Isriam observed as they made their

way down the columns of soldiers to the rear guard. "I'd settle for half a flask."

"As long as you're dreaming, why not my father's Syr-ene goldwine?"

It was Daniv's wine now. Both of them thought it, neither said it. They looked at each other, sharing the memory of an evening last winter. Rohan, catching them getting mildly tipsy on a stolen bottle, had added to their education by matching them cup for cup of Syrene gold until both boys were cross-eyed. They remembered most of the evening, anyway—and certainly recalled with agonizing clarity the morning after, and their lord's amusement as he lectured them on knowing one's limits when it came to wine as all else.

"When this is over," Daniv said abruptly, "come to High Kirat with me and we'll drink ourselves stuporous." "When this is over, we'll deserve it." A measure or so behind the last of Lord Maarken's army, the two young men reined in and squinted at the little roil of sand on the horizon. "Storm, or soldiers?" Daniv asked.

"Whichever, we should warn them." Isriam chewed his lip. "But I'm betting on Vellant'im."

"I hope you're wrong. Did you look at our people, Isriam? There's not enough fight left in them to bring down a lame plow-elk."

They rode directly for the blue Desert banner—tattered now, but with the golden dragon still gleaming atop the staff in the dawnlight—that signaled where Lord Maarken and Prince Pol were.

"The prevailing winds argue against a storm," the former mused after the squires had spoken. "But the only thing certain in the Desert is that the Storm God always changes his mind. What do you think, Pol?" "I've lived too long in Princemarch. Kazander?" The korrus of the Isulk'im lifted his head, licked his lips as if tasting the air, and nodded. "Enemy troops, my prince. One can smell their filthy, infested hides, the oil slathered on their hair that my wives would scorn to grease a rusted hinge with—"

"Very well," Pol said, interrupting Kazander's eloquence. He regarded the two squires. "Find each of the captains and tell them to make ready. There's a flat stretch just west of—"

Maarken cleared his throat. "Pol. . . ."

He met the Battle Commander's gray eyes. "Ah," he said softly. "Your pardon, my lord."

The older man inclined his head. "Daniv, Isriam, please inform the captains that we'll be turning due west for the Court of the Storm God."

The pair nodded and rode off. Kazander effaced himself, effectively leaving the cousins alone.

Maarken said, "I'm sorry, but we're just not capable of a fight."

"You're right, of course. And you needn't be so careful, Maarken. When I'm being an idiot, just tell me." He smiled a little. "Your father always gives mine a good swift kick when he needs it. Your job is to do the same for me."

"My father outweighs yours by two silkweights and can get away with kicking him," Maarken answered wryly. "You and I, on the other hand, are the same size—and you're eleven winters the younger."

"Strange you should say so," Pol murmured. "I feel a hundred years old."