"Raymond E. Feist - Wood Boy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Feist Raymond E)

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THE WOOD BOY
BY RAYMOND E. FEIST
The Duke looked up.
Borric, Duke of Crydee and second-in-command of the Armies of the West,
acknowledged the captain at the door of his command tent. 'Your Grace, if you
have a minute and could come outside?'
Borric stood up, envying his old friend Brucal, who was now probably sitting
before a warm fire somewhere in LaMut while he wrote long letters of complaint
to the Prince of Krondor about supplies.
The war was leaving its second winter and a stable front had been
established, with Borric's headquarters camp located ten miles behind the
lines. The Duke was a seasoned campaigner, having fought against goblins and
the Brotherhood of the Dark Path - the dark elves - since boyhood, and every
bone in his body told him this was going to be a long war.
The Duke donned his heavy cloak, and wrapped his scarf around him. He exited
his tent and a strange tableau greeted him.
In the distance, a group of figures could barely be seen as they approached
the camp. Through the swirling snow Borric could see them slowly take shape.
Grey figures against the dull white, surrounded by a haze of snowflakes, they
approached at a steady rate. Finally, the figures resolved themselves into a
patrol escorting someone.
The soldiers marched slowly, for the figure they surrounded was pulling a
heavy sled, plodding along at a steady pace despite what appeared a heavy
burden. As they came close, Borric could see it was a peasant boy who laboured
to haul the sled to the camp. He moved with steady purpose, coming at last to
stand before the commander of the King's Armies of the West.
Borric looked at the lad, who had obviously been through an ordeal. He was
bareheaded, his blond hair encrusted with ice crystals. About his neck and
face he wore a heavy scarf wrapped several times around. He wore a heavy
jacket and trousers, and thick sturdy boots. His simple wool coat was stained
dark with blood.
He had been pulling a sled, laden with odd cargo. A large sack had been
secured with ropes atop the sled, and over that two bodies had been lashed
down. A dead man stared up at the sky with empty eyes, his lashes sparkling
with frozen tears. He had been a fighter, from the look of him, and he wore
leather armour. His scabbard hung empty at his side and his left glove was
missing. Beside him lay a girl, under blankets, so that it appeared she was
sleeping. She had been a pretty girl in life, but in death her features were
almost porcelain, near perfection in their pale whiteness.
'Who are you, boy?'
The boy said, 'I am the Wood Boy.’ His voice was faint and his eyes were
vacant, as if he stared inward, though they were fixed on Borric,
'What did you say?' asked the Duke.
The boy seemed to gather his wits. 'Sir, my name is Dirk. I am the servant
of Lord Paul of White Hill. It's the estate on the other side of the Kakisaw
Valley.' He pointed to the west, Three days' walk from here. I carry
firewood.'
Borric nodded. 'I know the estate. I've visited Lord Paul many times over