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

Colors and textures rushed past him in three dimensions, as he dove ever closer to the wagons.
It's because you're not bright enough, stupid gryphon. Stupid, stupid gryphon.
Well, death is inevitable anyway, so dying for the right reason is...
Just as final.
Stupid gryphon.
Too late for reconsideration, though. The wagon alarm-fields loomed nearer, and Skan had to risk a
spell to disarm them—the easiest was one which made them detect another place nearby, instead of the
place they were supposed to protect. He focused on them, released the flow into them, diverted their
field away to an open part of the camp... and they did not sound. Now his troubles stemmed from the
soldiers who might still be outside—and the makaar. He might be invisible to the alarms, but he was still
pitch black to anyone's vision. A soldier of Ma'ar's army would not wonder at a shadow that moved
through the sky—he'd call an alert.
He half-hoped for detection, since he would likely have the quarry before any spells could be
leveled against him. Once discovered, he would not have to skulk about any longer... he could blaze
away with a detection spell to find the gryphon whose scream he'd heard earlier. Otherwise there would
be delicate searching around for—who knew how long. Of course, discovery also brought such pesky
distractions as arrows and firebolts and snares and spells....
He backwinged and landed, kicking up clods of dirt next to the wagon, and his head darted from
side to side, looking for spotters. None yet, but that could change all too quickly. Two steps to the back
of the wagon, then under it—no one ever guards the bottoms of things, only sides and doors—and
he began prying at the wagon's floorboards, next to the struts and axles, where the mud, water, and
friction of traveling always rots the wood. He was curled up under the wagon completely, on his back,
tail tucked between his legs, wings folded in against his ribs, hind claws holding the wingtips. He didn't
dare rip at the canvas of the wagon's bonnet—past experience had shown that apparently flimsy defenses
were often imbued with alarm-spells. His claws glowed faintly with the disruption-spell he was using, and
the wood shriveled above where his claws slowly raked, silent from the sound-muffling of his cupped
wings.
The enemy's wagons traditionally had an aisle down the middle, and that was where Skandranon
was working... another four cuts, five, six, and he'd be able to pull the boards down under the blanket of
a silence-spell. Then he'd get a look inside at their coveted prize.
He began mentally reciting the silence-spell, calling up the energy from inside himself and releasing it
around the wagon. He was careful to mold it short of touching the wagon itself, building it up from the
ground. The wagon's defenses might yet be sensitive to the touch of just such a spell. It was hard to tell
anymore, so many variables, so many new traps....
He hoped that the mages under Ma'ar's command did not sweep the camp for magic at work.
Things were going so well, so far. Skan reached up, claws digging firmly into the crossbrace,
cracked through it, and the entire aisle section fell to the ground, inches in front of his beak....
... and Skandranon found himself face to face with a very upset, recently awakened
Weaponsmaster, who was drawing something—surely a weapon—up from beneath his bedding. The
weapon pointed at the gryphon and started changing.
Skan's right claw shot out and struck the human's scalp and squeezed, finding yielding flesh. His
thumb pierced the man's eye socket, and inside the envelope of silence, a gurgling scream faded into the
wet sounds of Skan withdrawing his talons from the kill.
The man's hands twitched and dropped the weapon, which was still pointing at Skandranon. It was
a polished rod, wrapped in leather, with a glowing, spiked tip revealed where the leather ended. It rolled
from the dead man's fingers and fell to the ground, and the tip withdrew into the rod.
On your back, underneath a wagon, in an enemy camp, you kill a Weaponsmaster
one-handed? No one will ever believe it. Ever. That was too close, too close, stupid gryphon.
 Someone will come by soon, Skan. Move. Get the whatever-it-is and get away. That's all you
need to do. Get away.