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

the Great Gate once sealed, while the only other entrance was filled with churning, rushing water and who
knew what else under the Castle’s deep foundations. The valley beyond was lush and fertile, and
surrounded by high crags, made sheer and impregnable by the same skills that had made the Castle itself.
Anderras Darion was a comforting place, nestling in the mountains, like an old matriarch who radiated
security, but whose merest glance could scatter her towering offspring.

****

Hawklan sat alone at a table in one of the smaller dining halls. Size, of course, is relative, and even though
the hall was indeed smaller than many in the Castle, it would have comfortably accommodated several
hundred diners and attendants. In the past it probably had. Hawklan however, was unaffected by his
inappropriate scale in this echoing room. He was slouched back in a carved chair and gazing idly at a
splash of multi-coloured light making its leisurely but inexorable way across the table as the sun shone
through a round window above. Cutting through the dust motes, the yellow ray left the scene enshrined in
the glass resting uncertainly and inaccurately on the heavily grained table.

The window showed a warrior bidding farewell to his wife and child. Hawklan could see the red of the
warrior’s cloak and the blue of his wife’s gown, but the green of the fields in the background did not
survive the sun-carried journey, and the gold of the warrior’s sword mingled with the yellow of the child’s
tunic. Hawklan turned and looked up at the original. He knew that if he walked across the room and
gazed up at the scene he would see that the artist had caught the distress and conflict in the warrior’s face
as his child shied away from his fearsome armour. It was a masterly piece of work that always made
Hawklan want to reach up and embrace the three and comfort them. It also made him thankful that he
had no such conflict to face. He returned his gaze to the tabletop and breathed a sigh.

High in the beams above a feathered ear caught the sound, and a single shiny black eye opened and
turned a gimlet gaze onto the figure below with a businesslike twist of the head. The owner of the eye
was a raven. He was called Gavor.

Spreading his wings he craned forward and, resting on the warm air that filled the cavernous roof, he
floated silently into the void. With barely a twitch of his delicate feathers he spiralled gracefully down
through the sun-striped air and came to rest a little way in front of Hawklan. The landing was not quite as
graceful as the flight, and certainly not as quiet, for Gavor’s wooden leg was apt to give him trouble from
time to time. Not least when he wished it to.

The hollow thud of Gavor’s landing and the regular clunk of his wooden leg made Hawklan lift his head
to look at the approaching bird. It stopped in front of him and returned his gaze.

‘Rrrukk,’ it said. Hawklan did not speak.

‘Rrrukk,’ it repeated. A slight smile flickered in Hawklan’s eyes and spread reluctantly across his face.

‘Very good, Gavor,’ he said. ‘Very good. Your bird impressions are coming on very nicely. You will be
in demand at the next village fair. How’s the nightingale coming along? Is your throat still sore?’

Gavor raised his head with regal disdain.

‘Dear boy,’ came his cultured tones. ‘Such irony doesn’t become you. It really isn’t your style.’

‘I do apologize,’ said Hawklan with patent insincerity, laying a hand on his chest. ‘Please accept my