"Roger Taylor - Hawklan 4 - Into Narsindal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Roger)

Jaldaric opened his mouth to speak, but at first no sound came. ‘It was here,’ he managed eventually,
gazing around. ‘I didn’t recognize it until I turned round and looked back down the hill. It was here. The
Mandrocs.’

Arinndier’s eyes narrowed at Jaldaric’s patent distress.

Tel-Mindor caught Arinndier’s eye and drew his gaze to the bushes and shrubs that lined the road. They
still bore signs of the damage where the Mandrocs had crashed through in pursuit of the High Guards.

‘Would you like to be alone?’ Arinndier asked.

Jaldaric shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stand here alone every night as it is. Watching . . . Aelang . . .
struggling with his cloak and then smiling.’ He put his hand to his face involuntarily as if to block Aelang’s
swift and savage blow. It was a well-rehearsed movement. As Arinndier watched him he noted with
regret the grimness in his face and abruptly he was reminded of Eldric’s ferocious father.

Tel-Mindor stepped forward and took Jaldaric’s arm. ‘Say farewell to your friends now, Jal,’ he said
gently. ‘Leave them here. There are no good places to die violently, but there are worse than here.’

Jaldaric clenched his teeth. ‘I will stay a moment,’ he said. ‘You carry on. I’ll join you shortly.’

The three men were silent after they walked away from the young man. Each knew that there was little
they could do to ease Jaldaric’s burden, and while grief is a rending emotion, watching it in someone else
is precious little easier.

Eventually Jaldaric rejoined them, his face set and emotionless. No one spoke and, mounting up, the
party set off again.

As Fyndal had promised, the villagers they encountered had been told of their coming and they found
themselves being offered an abundance of food and drink. Having brought adequate supplies with them,
they tried to decline this generosity, only to find that Fyndal had laid gentle traps for them.

‘Yes, we know you’re in a hurry with your news, but you can eat this while you ride,’ was the comment
that invariably ended their hesitant refusals.

Jaldaric in particular was visibly moved by the warmth of the greeting he received.
 After passing through Little Hapter, Arinndier carefully stowed a large pie in his saddlebag and looked at
the others a little shamefacedly. ‘I couldn’t refuse the woman, could I?’ he asked. ‘They must think
we’ve had a famine at home, not a war. Are there many more villages between here and Anderras
Darion, Jal?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Jaldaric replied, now much more relaxed, and smiling broadly.

‘We should’ve brought another pack-horse,’ Tel-Mindor said, chuckling.

Jaldaric nodded. ‘They do take some pride in their hospitality,’ he said. ‘But if you want the benefit of
my local knowledge, whatever you do, don’t start admiring their carving, or we’llnever reach Anderras
Darion.’

Their first encounters with the Orthlundyn however, whilst burdening their packs, had eased their