"Raymond E. Feist - Serpentwar 1 - Shadow of a Dark Queen2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

the mirror image of his father's. But where his father had
been a slender man, Erik was not. A narrow waist was his
only heritage from his father. He had his maternal grandfather's
massive shoulders and arms, built up through
working at the forge since his tenth birthday. Erik's hands
could bend iron or break walnuts. His legs were also
powerful, from supporting plow horses who leaned on
the smith while he cut, filed, and shod their hooves, or
from helping to lift carts when replacing broken wheels.
Erik ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble.
Blond as a man could get, he had to shave only every third
day or so, for his beard was light. But he knew his mother
would insist on him looking his best today. He quickly
hurried to his pallet behind the forge, taking care not to
disturb the smith, and fetched his razor and mirror. A cold
shave was not his idea of pleasure, but far less irritating
than his mother would be should she decide to send him
back for the razor. He wet his face again and started
scraping. When he was done, he looked at himself one
more time in the shimmering water.
No woman would ever call Erik handsome: his features
were large, almost coarse, from the lantern jaw to the
broad forehead; but he possessed an open, honest look
that men found reassuring and women would come to
admire once they got used to his almost brutish appearance.
At fifteen years of age, he was already the size of a
man, and his strength was approaching the smith's; no
boy could best him at wrestling, and few tried anymore.
Hands that could be clumsy when helping set platters and
mugs in the common room were sure and adroit when
working in the forge.
Again his mother's voice cut through the otherwise
quiet morning, demanding he come inside now. He


rolled down his sleeves as he left the smithy, a small
building placed hard against the outside rear wall of
the livery. Circling the barn, he came into sight of the
kitchen. As he passed the open stable door, he glanced at
those horses left in his care. Three travelers were guesting
with his master, and their mounts were quietly eating
hay. The fourth horse was lying up from an injury and
she neighed a greeting at Erik. He couldn't help but
smile; in the weeks he had been tending her she had
come to expect his midmorning visits, as he trotted her
out to see how she mended.
I'll be back to visit later, girl,' he called softly to her.
The tone of the horse's snort revealed her less than
enthusiastic response. Despite his age, Erik was one of
the best handlers of horses in the region surrounding