"Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon - Mage Wars 01 - The Black Gryphon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

And he hoped with every drop of blood that he would never be required to use it again.
Halfway to his goal he froze as he heard footsteps approaching the stand of tall grasses where he lay
hidden. The cover that had seemed adequate a moment earlier seemed all too thin now—
Clever bird, hiding in grass. Better hope the wind doesn't blow—
But the footsteps stumbled, and Skan held his breath, not wanting to betray his position by breathing
steam into the cold air. He froze in mid-step, right foreclaw held a mere thumb length above the ground.
He could not see the human who approached without turning his head, which he would not do. He
could only wait and listen.
The footsteps stopped; there was a muffled curse, and the sound of hands fumbling with
cloth—Then, clear and unmistakable, the sound of a thin stream of water hitting the matted grasses.
The human grunted, yawned; the sound of trousers being hitched up followed. The footsteps
stumbled away again.
Skandranon unfroze and lowered his claw to the ground.
There were no other incidents as he made his way up the escarpment and slid under the shelter of a
knot of wild plum bushes, to wait until dawn. He could feel the beetles and spiders of the thicket
exploring their newly-arrived piece of landscape as the minutes went by. Despite the impulse to yelp and
swat them, though, he stayed still. Their irritation provided a blessing in a way; something to feel, to keep
his senses alert after nightfall.
Skandranon's tentative plan was to wait until darkness, then sneak out to explore the camp. Other
warriors suspected his stealthiness was a result of Urtho's magicking, although the elder denied it, citing
the gryphon's near-obsessive interest in dancing-movements. He had often watched Skandranon
mimicking human, tervardi, and hertasi performers in private. Skandranon had trained himself with a
dedication he would never admit except as a boast, applying that knowledge to flight, to lovemaking, and
to combat. That, in truth, was what made him quieter than a whisper of wind; no spells or tricks, just
practiced grace.
Silence alone is not enough. Urtho has learned that the hard way—we've lost border towns
for half a generation, and only now begun doing more than simply defending our borders. Eh,
well, Urtho had never intended to become Archmage. He's more suited to crafting silver and
carving figures than deploying armies.
Such a pity that a man so kindhearted would be pressed into the role of a warlord... but better he
than a heartless man.
And I'd certainly rather be off making little gryphlets.
That would have to wait until the world became a safer place to raise young, though. For now,
Skandranon waited... until a shriek rang out from the town, echoing off the walls of the valley. Only
practiced self-control kept him from leaping into the air, claws stretched to rend and tear.
One at least still lives. I'm coming, friend, I'm coming... just hold on a little longer. Just a
little. Feh, I can't wait any longer.
Skandranon stood and surveyed the layout of the encampment again; he'd heard screams like that
too many times in his life. Not again. He spread his wings half-open and leapt, down toward the
Weaponsmaster's wagons, depending on speed to be his ally. Knifelike wind whistled against his nares,
chilling his sinuses, sharpening his mind. All the sights and sounds of the world intensified when he was in
motion, sizes and details of shapes all taken into account for the entire span of his vision.
Snatch and fly, that's your plan, isn't it, damned foolish bird? You're going to die the hero
they all call you, for what? Because you couldn't stand another moment of another gryphon's
pain? Couldn't wait any longer.
The wagons rushed closer in his sight, and their magical alarms blazed into light, waiting like barbed
snares to be triggered. Were they traps, too, besides being alarms? Would they trap him? Were they the
bait, not the tortured gryphon?
Would it matter? You're too damned predictable, Skan, too sensitive, couldn't stand to wait.
She'd die anyway, you know it, by the time you'd have gone in. Why do it?