"Moon, Elizabeth - Deed Of Paksenarrion - 02 - Divided Allegiance V1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

"Cross blades with me, will you?" The green eyes blazed. Paks tore her gaze from them to watch the sword hand. "No human has skill to match an elf—arid I am no common elf." Indeed, the first ringing strokes revealed his ability. Paks fought on a rising wave of anger. Elves were never evil, ha! She avoided a quick trapping ploy, and thrust again. The tip of her blade seemed to hesitate an instant—an instant that let the enemy escape. She pressed on, furiously. Macenion had probably been killed by the blast, but he had won her freedom from whatever spell had bound her. She would fight to the end, and show this creature what human skill could be.
Again and again she managed to slip aside from a deadly blow, and just as often her own attacks fell short. Sweat rolled down her ribs, and she found herself grunting with every stroke. The elf did not seem to tire. The same smile curved his lips; the same arrogance arched his brows. Now her wrist began to ache, as he used every advantage of height and reach. She was usually taller than those she drilled with; she was not accustomed to adjusting to a longer reach. One of his blows fell true; the force of it drove her to one knee. She felt the links of mail sink into her flesh; she barely ducked the next blow and staggered back. She wanted to look for Macenion, but darea not. The elf'ssmile widened.
"You are outclassed, human fighter," he said lightly. "You are quite good, for a human, but not good enough. But look at my eyes, and acknowledge me your lord, and this can end."
Paks shook her head, as much to clear it as to refuse. Was that a movement behind the elf? She lunged again, her blade struck, but she narrowly avoided his. He seemed not to notice her blow. Suddenly a bit of hot wax fell on her face. As quick as the thought that followed, almost before she knew what she meant to do, Paks leaped high, grabbing the framework the candles were set on with one hand, and jerking her legs away from the elf's astonished stroke. The frame swung wildly, spattering them both with wax. With one arm over the ring, Paks swung at the elf from above. He grabbed at her leg and missed as she kicked out. She heard a squeal from above and glanced up to see the ringbolt slipping from the ceiling. She threw herself to one side, trying to clear the frame as it fell. The elf, pursuing, was struck. Before he could free himself from the ring, Paks attacked. Hampered by the framework and the candles, which caught his robe afire, he parried her blows weakly.
And then Macenion came up, panting and pale, and threw the whole of their oil supply on the elf. Paks jumped back as the candle flames flared on this fuel. A foul stench filled the chamber, and a black cloud swirled up from the fire, denser than smoke. Paks felt a wave of cold enmity that sent her staggering to her knees. The flames roared, now more blue than any fire of oil could be. Air rushed into the chamber, whistling round the corners. Paks realized that Macenion was tugging at her arms, pulling her away. She could hardly move. She managed to look around, and saw that the others in the room, the servants, were shuffling out a door in one corner as fast as they could.
When the flames died down, Paks still crouched helplessly where Macenion had dragged her. The elf'sbody had not been consumed in the fire, though it was horribly blackened, and all the clothing was gone. Macenion stood by it, frowning.
Paks tried several times before she could speak. "What's—wrong? He's dead, isn't he?"
"I wish I knew. That land of power—it was some spirit of evil, Paks, that took over the body of an elf. Of an elf lord. And the body is here still. I wonder if he is dead—truly. I've heard tales of such—"
Paks didn't want to move. Every muscle hurt. She managed to flex her hand, and found she still held her sword. She took a deep breath, which also hurt, and forced herself to her feet. She felt as if her legs and body were only loosely connected. Another deep breath. It was hard to believe that she and Macenion were still alive, and the elf was dead. Or dead in some way. She walked over to see.
"Your magic has done well so far, Macenion. We wouldn't be here without it. Can't you do something to make sure he stays dead?"
For once Macenion did not seem complacent. "No," he said soberly. "That's beyond my abilities. I wish my old master were here. We are fortunate that he chose a simple spell to bind you. Perhaps he wanted to have plenty left for me, or perhaps he had more in use than we know. But now—"
"Couldn't we put a stake through his heart?"
"What do you think he is, a kuerin-witch? Are you thinking of dragging his corpse to a crossroads, too?"
Paks flushed. "I don't know. I just remembered some old stories…"
"That won't work for him. Whatever took him over won't be withheld by any simple measures."
"We could—" Paks swallowed hard, then went on. "We could cut—dismember him."
"You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, Paksenarrion, I don't even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is blackened but unblistered."
"Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?"
Macenion shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body from whatever power holds it so."
"But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?"
"Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways."
Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry—and thirsty. She put up her sword and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a couple of swallows, she felt much better. "It's too bad," she said, "that you don't know what's in that fancy scroll you're so proud of."
Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. "I never thought of that," he said. "I wonder if—' and he rummaged around inside his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. "It's difficult—" he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. "You remember I told you how expensive it was?" Paks nodded. "Thing is, a magical scroll—one that has on it a workable spell—-can be written only by a magician who can cast the spell without it. I don't know why; it seems a silly rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he trusts; his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is which—or he sets his private mark on each—and all's well. But for someone who comes across one of these scrolls—for away from the person who wrote it—it's difficult to tell what it is without reading it."
"Then read it," said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. "You can read—?"
"Of course, I can read! That's not die point. That's how it's^used—by reading it. If I read it, whatever it is happens."
"Oh. But if it's not the right thing, can't you just read another?"
"No. Think! In the first place, suppose it's a spell to turn everyone but me in the room to stone. I read it, and there you are; stone."
"Right away?" Paks was startled.
"Yes, right away. And before you ask: no, I don't have any spell to turn you back—if one exists, and if I cared to use it. Contrary to popular belief, reading the spell backwards doesn't make it reverse. And in the second place, once it's read, it's gone. Poof!"
"Gone how?"
"Gone from the scroll. The magic is used up, and it—leaves.**
"Oh. So there's no way to—to peek?"
Macenion allowed himself to look amused. "No. Not that I ever heard of. There are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it's worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good." He peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.
"I might just take a look into the corridors," said Paks casually. "In case someone is coming—"
"Good idea. Then you'll be out of range if something does happen." Paks had not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite to that from which she'd entered the chamber. This was the way the "servants" had left. She could see no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. "Gp on—not too far. I think I'll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they should be fairly powerful." Paks went on as far as the turn.
It seemed a long time before he called. His voice was high and excited. Paks swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf's body. A dry clatter brought her eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion's eyes. He was pale and trembling.
"It worked," she said unnecessarily.
"Yes. It—by Orphin, I'm tired. That—even reading it—that was beyond my powers—" He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. "What—? Oh yes. That." Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After another swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.
"Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?" Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, she had little hope of escape.
"I think so. That—was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for you, or been more practiced at swordplay—we wouldn't be here."
'Then what were we to free? The elfs body? That couldn't have called us. What else is there?"
Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. "No. You're right. We haven't been greeted with cries of joy and armfьls of reward, have we? Something still to be done—by Orphin, I don't know if I can manage any more spells today." He reached for the food and started earing slowly. "Maybe you won't need to. If whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it."
"I hope it's that easy." Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. "I just had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn't trapped in a jewel or something worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we're out of luck."
"If only we get out of this," said Paks, "we'll be in luck."
"True. Did you see anything down that corridor?"
"No. Nothing."
Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.
"Wait—" Macenion's face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own sword, and tested the balance. "I sense something—"
"Not that thing in the Winter Hall!" Macenion shook his head. "No. Not so dire as that. But it's as if my blood tingled—some enemy is below, and coming nearer."
Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corndor was slightly too wide for two to hold. "We'd better go on, then, and hope for something we can use."