"Mercedes Lackey - Bard's Tale 2 - Fortress of Frost and Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

Fortress of Frost and Fire
by Mercedes Lackey and Ru Emerson
copyright 1993




version 2.1 fixed a few mistakes took out original page breaks




Chapter I
For the first time in many days, the west wind died away with sunset. It was fairly warm and very
quiet along the edge of the Whispering Woods. Quiet enough in the stable that the human boy grooming
two travel-worn horses could easily make out individual voices from the Moonstone Inn, some distance
to the west—and upwind—across a neatly tended courtyard. Mostly dry or downright sarcastic elven
voices, but of course, the Moonstone was owned by White Elves. An occasional, coarser human voice
rose above the rest.
Gawaine sighed and freed a hand from his present task to push long, loose carrot-colored curls
back under the edge of the cloth band, then went back to currying the horses. His master would wonder
where he was, why it was taking him so long to finish such a simple task. But I like being in a stable,
Gawaine thought. Even after four years, I feel like I've come home, tending to the horses, breathing
the smell of horses and hay. A loud burst of laughter from the inn made him jump; his gray stepped
back nervously and he automatically rubbed the heavy neck muscles, reassuringly. "It's all right, Thunder;
sorry I startled you," he said softly. "They startled me, though. Somehow you don't expect that kind of
raucous noise from an inn full of White Elves."
Probably that had been some of the humans.
Though Gawaine had had to reevaluate his notions of White Elves when Naitachal brought him into
elven country. "I thought they would be—well, look at them, tall and beautiful, so long-lived! You'd think
they would all have beautiful souls, too; that anyone with so much time would be more spiritual. It's just
like everything else, Thunder," he mumbled gloomily. "Things used to be so simple." Thunder—named
partly for his storm-cloud color, mostly for the heavy way he set his feet down—leaned against him and
lipped his hair. Gawaine chuckled softly, gave him a shove so he could get past him into the open, and
patted his rump on the way by.
Across the aisle, there were at least a dozen elven horses. He smiled and sighed happily. Thunder
was his own horse, and he dearly loved the cobby dapple gray, but those beauties . . . they made him
warm and shivery all over. "Look at those long legs, at that golden tail, and you," he murmured as he
wandered down the aisle. "Oh, you love." The horse in question turned its head to give him a long look
from under thick lashes, then turned back to its feed. Gawaine sighed again and turned back to take care
of his Master's black, Star. What an insipid name for such a nice-looking fellow, he thought. From
another point of view, he'd been named by his Master after one of the heroic steeds from an epic
verse—which was really silly when you got to know the phlegmatic, unexciteable Star.
Star munched while Gawaine rubbed, ignoring both the boy and Thunder, whose jealousy made an
hour like this difficult. Thunder caught hold of Gawaine's tunic and tugged, and when Gawaine turned his
head to free the garment, lipped at his hair again, catching hold of the band and pulling it off his young
master's head. Thick, copper-colored curls fell across his face and Gawaine had to shove them back and
hold them with one hand while he snatched at the cloth band. He finally caught it, slid it over his forehead
and smacked Thunder's neck. "Stop that. Behave yourself." Thunder simply looked at him. Gawaine
scowled as he shoved the last of his hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, and moved around to Star's