"David Farland - Runelords 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farland David)

He'd only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a
small scuffling behind a stack of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he'd disturbed a ferrin as it
hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He'd turned, expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when
the assassin sprang from the shadows.
Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close
to Dreys' ear, but the sergeant fought it off--till the man's arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys' throat. Dreys managed to hold
the smaller man's wrist back for a moment. "Murder. Bloody murder!" Dreys shouted.
A spy! he thought. I've caught a spy! He could only imagine that he'd disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.
He thrust a knee into the assassin's groin, lifting the man in the air. Pulled the man's knife arm full length and tried to twist it.
The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit-punched Dreys in the chest.
Dreys' ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin
had the brawn of five men, maybe more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased strength
only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one's bones with any superior hardness. So this match was quickly
degenerating into what Dreys would call "a bone-bash."
He struggled to hold the assassin's wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.
Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: "That way, I think! Over there!" They came from the left. A street over was Cheap Street--
where the bunched houses did not press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The voices had to
 2
be from the City Guard--the same guards Dreys had been avoiding--whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post
at the manor gate.
"Cat's Alley!" Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment more--make sure the fellow didn't stab him, or
escape.
The Southerner broke free in desperation, punched him again, high in the chest. More ribs snapped. Dreys felt little pain.
One tends to ignore such distractions when struggling to stay alive.
In desperation the assassin ripped the knife free. Dreys felt a tremendous rush of fear and kicked the assassin's right ankle.
He felt more than heard a leg shatter.
The assassin lunged, knife flashing. Dreys twisted away, shoved the fellow. The blade struck wide of its mark, slashed
Dreys' ribs, a grazing blow.
Now Dreys grabbed the fellow's elbow, had the man half-turned around. The assassin stumbled, unable to support himself on
his broken leg. Dreys kicked the leg again for good measure, and pushed the fellow back.
Dreys glanced frantically into the shadows for sign of some cobblestone that might have come loose from its mortar. He
wanted a weapon. Behind Dreys was an inn called the Churn. Beside the flowering vines and the effigy of the Earth King at its
front window sat a small butter churn. Dreys tried to rush to the churn, thinking to grab its iron plunger and use it to bludgeon
the assassin.
He pushed the assassin, thinking the smaller man would go flying. Instead the fellow spun, one hand clutching Dreys'
surcoat. Dreys saw the knife blade plunge.
He raised an arm to block.
The blade veered low and struck deep, slid up through his belly, past shattered ribs. Tremendous pain blossomed in Dreys'
gut, shot through his shoulders and arms, a pain so wide Dreys thought the whole world would feel it with him.
For an eternity, Dreys stood, looking down. Sweat dribbled into his wide eyes. The damned assassin had slit him open like a
fish. Yet the assassin still held him--had thrust his knife arm up to the wrist into Dreys' chest, working the blade toward Dreys'
heart, while his left hand reached for Dreys' pocket, groping for something.
His hand clutched at the book in Dreys' pocket, feeling it through the material of the surcoat. The assassin smiled.
Dreys wondered, Is that what you want? A book?
Last night, as the City Guard had been escorting foreigners from the merchants' quarter, Dreys had been approached by a
man from Tuulistan, a trader whose tent was pitched near the woods. The fellow spoke little Rofehavanish, had seemed
apprehensive. He had only said, "A gift--for king. You give? Give to king?"
With much ceremonial nodding, Dreys had agreed, had looked at the book absently. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of
Tuulistan. A thin volume bound in lambskin. Dreys had pocketed it, thinking to pass it along at dawn.
Dreys hurt so terribly now that he could not shout, could not move. The world spun; he pulled free of the assassin, tried to