"Dave Duncan - A Man Of His Word 2 - Faery Lands Forlorn" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

Moreover, something about Azak's stance suggested that he did not
believe he was in much danger, and Inos decided that she was more
concerned for Rap's dog. True, it had overpowered Andor and then savaged
the giant Darad. The djinn was not as massive as the jotunn had been,
but he was almost as tall; he was younger and probably faster, and Darad


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had been hampered by entering the fight when he was already on the floor
with the monster's teeth in his arm ... Shocked to discover that she was
assessing the contest as she might weigh an upcoming skittles match at
Kinvale, Inos looked to Kade, and Kade was very obviously not going to
interfere, either.

Azak's slim, curved blade slid into view. Inos glanced around at the
drape in the hope that Rap might appear. If Rasha had allowed his dog
through, surely she would not leave Rap himself to the unlikely mercy of
the imps? The sword was out now. The wolf had begun to growl. Was that a
good sign or a bad?

It gathered itself to leap; Azak drew back his elbow. The dog turned to
stone. Kade recoiled, moaning, and Inos reached out to hug her, but more
for her own comfort than her aunt's, probably.

May the Good be with us! There was no doubt-stone it was. No mundane
sculptor could ever have matched the detail of the coat so well, nor
achieved the cunning fit of the grain of the rock to the gleam of light
over muscle and bone, but otherwise what had a moment before been a
living, breathing, and highly dangerous predator was now only a graceful
ornament. Inexplicably, that felt wrong. Inexplicably, that sorcery
impressed Inos more than all the miracles she had seen and experienced
since the terrors began, so many hours before.

Azak, on the other hand, sheathed his scimitar quite matterof-factly, as
if petrification were no more remarkable in Arakkaran than shampooing,
or ladies entering rooms through windows.

Before anyone spoke, the jewels tinkled again, signaling the arrival of
Sultana Rasha. Light flared up behind her and there was no longer an
impossible night beyond the drapery. She was wearing the face of a
mature woman, an imperious matron in her thirties-not conventionally
beautiful, but striking. In Inisso's chamber her appearance had flicked
back and forth from age to youth, from ugliness to beauty, and her
flowing white raiments had varied similarly, from coarse white cotton to
silks embroidered with pearls and gems. Now, like her face, her dress
represented a compromise, rich but not ostentatious. Her fingers
glittered with gems, though.