"Mark A. Garland - Demonblade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garland Mark A)

with his leshy spirit the way one might smell ripe cherries on the mid-summer winds, incredibly sweet,
alluring. He could not help his fascination any more than the leaves of plants could resist the sunlight.
None of the leshy could, until two of them had been turned to stone.

The Old One had finally shown Ergris the Blade, even let him touch it several times—out of respect for
Ergris' bravery, his wisdom, and, Ramins explained, out of gratitude for his good company. The sword's
short blade shined with a glow that persisted, if faintly, even in darkness, at least to Ergris' leshy eyes. Its
hilt was thick and black and smooth, too thick in fact for a leshy's tiny hands to properly wrap around.
Ergris had never known or imagined the like of that magical blade, or the Old One, or the visits they had
had together.

The brothers of the council had deemed the whole relationship utterly foolish and worthless—no good
could ever come from contact with man, even this wizard-man. And the wizard had raised a dampening
spell outside his house soon enough, which kept even leshy from sensing the Blade beyond the four walls
that kept it. Without that subtle lure many others had begun to question Ergris's strange conduct as well.
But Ergris was King, and Ergris had proven them wrong.

He cleared the past from his mind and focussed on the present as he leaned against the center of the
cabin door. He smoothed his voice, adjusted his tone, caressing each band of the board's raw grain until
it rose just high enough. Then he pushed the door open as the board dropped away; he picked it up,
touching it gently with his hands now, then set the piece against the wall just inside the door.

Ergris stood still a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit interior of the hut. The Old One was seated
in his chair at his table, head slumped forward onto the pages of an open book, a quill clutched in his
bony fingers. His short staff of birch-wood lay on the floor beside him. The aura of power that had been
Ramins' was gone, Ergris sensed, completely and forever.

I have lost a great companion, he thought, forcing himself to think it, since thinking such things of
creatures like men was strange and difficult even now. But the Old One had come to treat the forest and
its rightful occupants with the favor and regard they deserved, and was the only human any leshy now
living had ever shared thoughts and fruit with, so far as Ergris knew. . . .

Ergris began to lose his thoughts, his nature overruling his mind as the sweetness of a very different aura,
of something terrible and wonderful and potent, began pulling at him, growing stronger the longer he
remained inside the hut. As he hurried to begin his search, his hide prickled with anticipation.I have come
in time, he thought, following his senses, finding it at last.The Demon Blade is still here!



Chapter I
Brittle shrieks broke the silence, filling the still night air from the high rock walls to the moonlit mountain
slopes beyond. Voices echoed down the pass in a cold and grating chorus, building, burrowing into the
brain until the mind could no longer endure the agony: the cry of the banshee was the sound of death.

Frost looked to his three Subartan warriors. In the deep shadows of the cliffs even the moon did not
light their faces, but there was no doubt they understood. He watched their vague silhouettes move about
him, forming a defensive triangle, leaving Frost at its center. This was the only arrangement possible; a big
man by any measure, padded with far too much extra body fat and busy with his spells, he would make
an easy target. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and drew on the strength of his body and his mind.