"Roger Taylor - Hawklan 2 - Fall Of Fyorlund" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

‘I have to leave unexpectedly, Captain,’ he said. ‘And I’m afraid I must leave you and your men with a
task as difficult and perhaps as distasteful as you’ve ever had to do.’ He looked deeply into Jaldaric’s
eyes. ‘I rely on your loyalty, Captain, as does the King.’

****

‘Ah, Fyordyn are you?’ Loman said, looking up from the horse he was tending. The recipient of this
remark stood framed in the sunlit doorway of Loman’s workshop. He was tall and well-built with fair
curly hair and a round face which exuded a worried innocence. Loman judged him to be about
twenty-four years old.

Jaldaric and his companions had ridden into Pedhavin down the River Road just after dawn, in search of
a smith to re-shoe one of their horses.

‘How did you know that?’ he asked, in surprise.

Loman smiled and winked. ‘No great mystery, young man. It’s very characteristic work,’ he said,
handing him the shoe. ‘Quite well made too. Your smithing’s improved in the last twenty years.’

‘Oh,’ came the reply. ‘I’m afraid all horseshoes look alike to me. I know very little about smithing.’
Then, changing the subject, ‘Have you ever been to Fyorlund?’

‘No, no,’ said Loman quickly. ‘But I’ve seen quite a lot of Fyordyn work in my time. A lot of people
have passed through here over the years. Here we are.’

His last remark was spoken to the horse as he moved to the side away from the young man and started
busily preparing one of its hooves. The Fyordyn work he had seen had been during the Morlider War
and he did not want to become involved in relating sad old tales to sate the inevitable curiosity of this
young man and his friends.

He regretted slightly his little demonstration in identifying the shoes and decided not to ask to which Lord
this group were High Guards. They wore no livery, but their whole bearing told what they were as clearly
as any uniform to one who had fought by the side of the High Guards. Loman paused in his work and
screwed up his face as he forced down the old memories that came to his mind vivid and clear.

The young man walked around the horse to join him. ‘My name’s Jaldaric,’ he said, extending his hand
and smiling nervously.
 Loman looked up and, returning a reassuring smile, took the hand. ‘Are you journeying to the south?’ he
asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re just spending some leave-time in Orthlund before we go
back on duty. We’re High Guards.’

Loman nodded understandingly and bent to his work again.

‘We’re due for the northern borders when we get back, and it’s miserable up there at the best of times,’
Jaldaric continued.

Loman was surprised to find he was relieved at this voluntary admission, and he reproached himself for
harbouring suspicious, albeit unclear, thoughts. He attributed these to ‘too many changes going on round