"Roger Taylor - Hawklan 1 - Call of the sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

Slowly, his unguided footsteps took him steadily downwards, across icy rock slopes and through drift
filled gulleys, a seemingly endless pilgrimage towards what must surely be a chill final sleep.

Gradually the terrain softened, but such light as there was began to fade and, unrelenting, the wind
increased, making the man lower his head so that all he could see was the snow before him. Shifting his
burden occasionally he thought no thoughts in his mounting weariness but the placing of one foot in front
of the other, and did not notice that after a while he was once again walking uphill.

Then his journey ended as a sheer, snow covered vertical face appeared abruptly before his downcast
gaze. He looked up and to the left and right, but in all directions it disappeared into the gathering
darkness.

Reaching out uncertainly, as if for reassurance, he placed his hand against the wall and brushed it from
side to side. As the loose packed snow fell away, some of it was pressed into deep crevices etched into
the surface, and he saw that it was not rock, but metal, and intricately carved.

He stared at it for some time, as if waiting. Then, as he watched, his fingers searched out a pattern in the
snow-packed surface and, unbidden, his hand took from his pocket a small medallion and placed it
against the pattern. It clicked softly into place, and so well did it fit that its outlines could no longer be
seen. The man felt an ancient silence stir within him and, bringing his face close to the great metal wall, he
whispered softly.

A thin black vertical line appeared in front of him and slowly he stepped back. The line widened into a
crack and then widened further as the wall revealed itself to be a huge gate.

As its two great leaves swung open noiselessly and majestically, the man, still holding his burden, was
silhouetted against a radiant and welcoming light that rose to fill the courtyard beyond.

Far to the north, a chill and brooding presence stirred also, though uneasily, like one who has heard
floating down the long deserted corridors of his ancient, empty mansion, a soft and feared footfall.

Chapter 1

Anderras Darion was the name of Hawklan’s castle. Situated above the village of Pedhavin, it looked out
over the undulating farm and forest lands of central Orthlund. Its construction showed little sign of age,
though it was known to be ancient and its location was unusual in that its huge bulk sealed the mouth of a
hanging valley. The great front wall bedded deep into the surrounding rock made it appear as if it were
growing from the mountains like a natural outcrop, and its builders had fitted the local rock so cunningly
that no line could be seen where the wall met the sides of the valley, nor where block fitted to block.
Only the Great Gate and the towers rising from and behind the wall marked it as being other than one of
nature’s extravagances.

The Gate was double-leaved and unusually high and, from a distance, appeared to be of timber overlain
with plain polished bronze. However, closer examination showed it to be covered with countless tiny
carvings depicting scenes from a great war and a great peace, and while no one knew what the Gate was
made of, the intricate texture of the carvings was unaffected by both the onslaughts of winters and
summers alike, and by the hands of generations of people who had travelled to see them and marvel.

Carvers from the Guild would climb the steep winding road up from the village: sometimes alone, to learn