"Christopher Rowley - Bazil 02 - A Sword For A Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rowley Christopher)

“It is over,” he said with a dragon finality that was absolute. “We go
back today. I will come again next year. If she lives, then I know she will
come then.”

Relkin shivered. “Next year? You want to come back here and do this
again?”

“Boy not have to come! Dragon come alone!”

“It might come to that,” muttered Relkin, though both knew he would
never let his charge out of his sight for so long.

Bazil finished with the sword and held it up, rain splattering off the
blue steel.

“Bah, this sword is clumsy, stupid. I do not want to fight with it.”

Relkin had been hearing complaints about the sword, a straightforward
military blade, almost eight feet long, ever since it had been presented to
Brazil the previous summer.

For months, in fact, Relkin had been secretly saving silver to buy his
dragon a new and better blade, but the cost was enormous. Such a weapon
represented a year’s salary, and Relkin had a long way to go before he
could approach one of the armorers at Fort Dal-housie and make a down
payment on one of the lovely blades that hung at the rear of their shops.

Bazil stood up and swung the sword, the steel whistling through the air
and slicing off the tops of a couple of unfortunate saplings. With a final
grumble, he sheathed the blade and picked around in the remains of the
oat sack for a handful of grain.

In a sullen mood, and with bellies rumbling from hunger, they
descended the hemlock-clad slopes of Mt. Ulmo. At the river Argo, which
had risen to a torrent because of the incessant rain, the only ferry was
reluctant to cross to the small town of Sutsons Camp.
 They had to wait on the north side of the river, where there was nothing
except a few battered huts used by local fishermen. They were fortunate in
one thing: there were some fishermen there who’d had a reasonable catch
the day before. So while they spent another miserable night, Relkin inside
one of the verminous, smoky huts and Bazil bivouacked under a fishing
boat pulled up on the shore, they at least had several quarts of a hot fish
stew in their bellies.

The following morning, the rain gave up at last and was replaced with a
freezing wind from the northwest, “Hazog Breath” it was called up on the
cold-stone ramparts of Fort Kenor. Relkin and Baz waited disconsolately,
sitting in front of a small fire. At lunch, they bought more fish soup from
the fishermen. It was considerably thinner than it had been and did little