"David Gemmell - Morningstar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

rushed to her rescue.

A copper warming-pan had been left in the bed. I removed it, slid under the heavy
blankets and closed my eyes, seeing again the tall man leaping to our aid. I have seen
many troupes of dancers in my life, yet rarely have I watched so graceful a human being.
He had moved with great economy, always in balance, his confident skills wondrously
displayed.

I pictured him again in my mind. Somewhat above six feet tall, wearing a common
soldier's jerkin of dark leather and beneath it a white blouse with puffed sleeves,
slashed with . . . silk? Probably. But his dark leggings were of cheap wool, frayed at
the knee, and his boots were those of a cavalryman. You know the old style, worn high
over the knee to protect the rider, but folded down when afoot. Expensive boots.

A curious mixture, to be sure! But could I make a song of it? The hero bard and the
wolfshead swordsman.

I doubted it, for there was no suitable ending. The swordsman had not fallen in
love with the girl, and the tale was too swift in the telling.

Snuggling down, I slept without dreams until somewhere close to dawn.

I was awakened by a hand that closed over my mouth. 'Do not cry out, goat-face, or
I shall slit your throat!’ The hand moved away from my mouth, but I felt the point of a
dagger against my neck. The room was dark and I could see nothing save a black silhouette
above me. ‘What do you want?' I managed to ask.

•The gold. Where is it?' Gold? What are you talking about?’ Don’t bandy words with
me! I rescued the wench, the reward should be mine. ’Jarek Mace?’ You know me?' asked the
man, surprised. Stepping back from she bed, he opened a tinder-box and struck his flint.
Flames sprang up within the iron box. Lighting a taper from them, he moved to the three
lanterns hanging upon the whitewashed walls. Soon the room was bathed in light and I sat
up, watching him. He was wide-shouldered yet narrow of hip, long-legged and - as I have
said -exceedingly graceful in his movements. His hair was light brown,worn long to the
shoulder but cropped above the eyes. There was nothing special about the shape of his
head, or his eyes or mouth, yet the combination of his features created a remarkably
hand-some face. Turning back to the bed he grinned, and such was the power of the smile
that I returned it. Pulling up a chair he sat beside me. 'I have seen you before,' he
announced. 'You do magicker's tricks and tell stories.'Thus was my life described - and
irritation began to grow within me. I had been called goat-face and my skills, which I
had given some fifteen of my twenty-five years to learn, had been dismissed in one short
sentence.



However, I felt it wise to bear in mind that my unwelcome guest was a known killer
of men and was currently sitting alongside me holding a sharp dagger. 'My name is Owen
Odell.’ I don't care about that, bard. But how do you know of me?’ The officer of the
Watch told me your name - soon after you rescued me. ’Ah! Then you accept my point? As
the rescuer, the gold is mine.’ It was given to me,' I pointed out. His expression