"Nancy Springer- Sea King Trilogy 01 - Madbond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

maddened horse, the rider burst right in at the door! Half the wall came down with him—he
was a man well thewed to be a warrior, one of the wild Red Hart hunters from the vast
mountains that loomed eastward, half naked even in the freezing cold, his hair, braided,
flying, the color of the lightning. Bearing down at the gallop he came—and in his upraised
hand, lifted to strike, a long knife such as had never been seen, a knife of more than a
forearm’s length! The blade was as smooth as ice, made of some strange substance that
bore an edge sharper even than chipped obsidian, and it glinted as pale as the horseman’s
hair. But the long knife-thing, the sword, was not the worst weapon the rider bore, not to the
young sea king who sucked in a single breath and faced him. Far worse was the battering
force of the stranger’s heartbroken rage, the grief that skewed his face, the pain that gave
mountainous power to his blow.
Ducking, parrying that first mighty blow—the knife of flint broke off in his hand. The mounted
attacker towered over him. Falling back, circling, the sea king screamed aloud for his
followers.
He who came in the lightning, he of the long weapon, the pale hair, it was I whom folk called
Dannoc, I the storyteller, Sakeema’s fool.

Chapter One

It was like coming up through black water, awakening. I thrashed and flinched, for my enemy
stood at the surface, I knew that, stood waiting with knife poised to stick me in the gullet
when I gasped for breath. I would die. I gasped anyway, and struggled, striking out with my
fists to protect myself, and I felt an oddly quelling touch take hold of them, a touch as strong
as my fear but far gentler. I awoke.
Dark, but not as dark as the black water—I was in a sort of cave. A young man, as young as
I, had hold of me. He was no one I knew. I grew still with surprise, and he let go of my arms
and looked down at me where I lay, his gaze unsmiling but not harsh. He seemed grave, as
a deathbed vigilant might be grave. Beyond him white winter light slanted down like snow
through the only entry—overhead. A pit, a prison!
The long arrow of fear darted through me, for all my life I had roamed the uplands and the
highmountain meadows where the deer leap, and prison seemed the worst of torments to
me. Or nearly the worst ... I wanted to leap up like a deer, whurr away like a partridge, but
instead I flopped about where I lay, like a great fish. My legs and wrists were tied with
thongs. The young man at my side put a hand on my chest to restrain me.
“Gently. You will hurt yourself,” he said to me, speaking my own language of the Red Hart
tribe with only a slight hesitation. I grew still again and stared at him. His hair was dark
brown, his eyes also of some dark color—it_
was hard to see what color in the dim light. He wore a plain tunic of rough wool such as the
Herders weave. He was not of the Red Hart.
“What place is this?” I demanded of him.
“You are in a pit for the keeping of roots or prisoners-most often roots. Near the Hold of the
Seal Kindred.”
“What?” I shouted. I struggled again, but in a more centered way. The youth took hold of me
by my bound arms and helped me to sit up.
“But how can that be?” I exclaimed. How could I have come to the sea over the snowpeaks,
and in the wintertime, yet? I had never ventured so far from the Demesne of my people. Yet I
could not disbelieve him. Even as I spoke I could hear the cat-snarling of the surf.
“Why am I imprisoned?” I asked next. “For what misdeed?”
The young man sat back at a small distance and faced me. Even sitting, I overtopped him
somewhat, for I was long of limb, rawboned and loose-knit, taller than most men. But I did