"David Gemmell - Drenai Saga 01 - Legend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

The herald looked down at the blood-covered cloth at his feet.
'I am afraid the omens are not pleasant,' said Ulric.
_1
Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter, but enough not to matter, he
thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead
crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke
stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odour of
unwashed bodies, forgotten meals and musty, damp clothing. A lantern
flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the
room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door,
muttering his apologies to the crowded inn.
Conversation which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air now
resumed, a dozen voices from dif-ferent groups merging into a babble of
meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as some-one
laughed - the sound was as cold as the winter wind beating against the
wooden walls. Like some-one walking over your grave, he thought. He
pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need
to be able to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation:
it had been the same for days.
War.
Such a little word. Such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest,
starvation, plague and horror.
More laughter burst upon the room. 'Barbarians!' roared a voice above
the babble. 'Easy meat for Drenai lances.' More laughter.
Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Grafted
with care, even love; multi-faceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted
the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there.
And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into
fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am
not a fool, he told himself. Not yet.
Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a
tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in
with a word and a smile before a snarl and a fist became necessary.
War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that
reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkers - most, in
fact - were well-known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers,
traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate,
trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory
and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The
Nadir - even the name spoke of contempt.
But they'll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they'll learn! Horeb's
eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters
who were clearing tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing
beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her
mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to
marry the baker's apprentice Norvas. Good girls. Gifts of joy. Then his
gaze fell on the tall figure in the blue cloak seated by the window.
'Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,' he muttered, knowing the man would
never hear him. Horeb turned away, cursed, then removed his leather
apron and grasped a half-empty jug of ale and a tankard. As an