"Van Lustbader, Eric - Sunset Warrior 01 The Sunset Warrior(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the bestselling novels The Ninja, Sirens, Black Heart, The M and Jian. He graduated from Columbia University in 1968, majoring in Sociology, then joined entertainment industry as a journalist. He went to take publicity and marketing posts for Elek Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV and C Records, working with Pink Floyd, Blue Oys Cult and Elton John.
By the same author
The Ninja Black Heart The Miko Jian Sirens Shan Zero
Shallows of Night
Dai-San
Beneath an Opal Moon
ERIC VAN LUSTBADER
The Sunset Warrior
Volume 1 of the Sunset Warrior Sequence
GRAFTON BOOKS
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND
Grafton Books
A Division of the Collins Publishing Group
8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Grafton Books 1988
First published in Great Britain by W. H. Alien & Co. Ltd 1980
Copyright (c) Eric Van Lustbader 1977 ISBN 0-586-20206-4
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Bembo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
To R.A.L. and M.H.L.
who were there through the best and,
especially, through the worst.
And To Henry Steig, more than the master artisan.
PART ONE
Echoes
To survive is not enough. - Bujun saying
Ronin was dying and he did not know it.
He lay quite still and completely naked on the centre of an elliptical stone slab which occupied roughly the centre of a square, cold chamber. Despite this, tiny beads of sweat glinted in the bristles of his short, black hair. His fine features held no expression whatsoever.
Standing over him, bent, eyes intent, was Stahlig, the Medicine Man. Ronin tried to relax, thinking, This is all a waste of time, as Stahlig's fingers probed and pushed at his chest, moving slowly down towards his ribs on the left side. He tried not to think of it but his muscles had a will of their own and they betrayed him, jumping in pain under the thick fingers.
'Uhm,' Stahlig grunted. 'Very recent'.
Ronin stared at the ceiling; at nothing. What was bothering him? It was merely a fight. Merely? His lips curled in distaste. A brawl; rolling in the Corridor like a common - abruptly remembrance blossomed . . .
His bare arms slick with sweat, his thick sword just sheathed, heavy at his side, his hands light after almost a full Spell of Combat practice. Walking alone and distracted out of the Hall of Combat into a knot of people, all at once surrounded by loud voices disclaiming hotly, stupidly, and he paid no attention. Something pushed against him and a voice cut through the din.
'And where are you going?' It was cold and affected and belonged to a tall, thin, blond man who wore the obliquely striped chest bands of the Chondrin. Black and gold: Ronin did not recognize the colours. Behind the blond man on either side stood five or six Bladesmen wearing the same colours. Apparently they had stopped a cluster of Students on their way from practice. He could not think why.
'Answer, Student!' the Chondrin commanded. His thin face was very white, dominated by a waxy nose. His high cheeks were pocked and a scar ran down like a tear from the corner of one eye so that it appeared lower than the other one.
Ronin was momentarily amused. He was a Bladesman and therefore practised with other Bladesmen. But these days he did not have much to do and boredom had led him to practice with the Students also. When he did that, as now, he wore plain clothes and those who did not know him took him for a Student.
'Where I go and what I do is my own affair' Ronin said blandly.'What is your business with these Students?'
The Chondrin goggled at him, stretching his neck forward like a reptile about to strike, and two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, accentuating the whiteness of the pockmarks.
'Where are your manners, Student?' he said menacingly. 'Speak with deference to your betters. Now answer the question.'
Ronin's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword but he said nothing.
'Well,' sneered the Chondrin, 'it appears this Student is in need of a lesson.' As if the words were a signal, the Bladesmen rushed at Ronin. Too late he realized that he could not draw his sword rapidly within the confines of the crowd. Then they were piling into him, the sheer force of their combined weight bearing him to the ground, and he thought, I do not believe this is happening. Instinctively he kicked out as he was borne under, and had the satisfaction of feeling his boot smash into flesh that gave way. Almost at the same moment, a blow along the side of his head disrupted his enjoyment. Adrenalin spurted and he punched up and out, and even though he was on his back and the leverage was not there, he felt his fist connect as it split open skin, cracked into bone. He heard a brief wail.
Then the boot caught him in the side and a thick gauze came down over his brain. He tried to hit again, could not, struggled with an enormous weight on his chest. His lungs were on fire and he felt ashamed. When the boot hit him again, he passed out . . .
The wave of pain came again but this time he had it under control and there was only the slightest movement. He looked at the wide head bent over him with its shaggy brows, rheumy eyes, and creased forehead.
'Ach!' exclaimed the Medicine Man, as much to himself as to Ronin. 'What have you been up to, ah?' He shook his head and, without looking at
Ronin, turned and put a dark, furry cloth against the mouth of an opaque white-glass bottle, and turned it upside down. He applied the cloth to Ronin's side. It was cold and the pain subsided.
'So. Dress and come inside.' He threw the cloth over the back of a hard chair and disappeared through a doorway. Ronin sat up, his side stiff but now without pain, pulled on his leggings and shirt, then his low leather boots. He stood to strap on his sword, then followed in the wake of Stahlig's body into a warmly lighted cubicle in sharp contrast to the starkly geometrical surgery outside.
Here all was a jumble. Shelves of bound papers and tablets rose like wild ivy from floor to ceiling along three walls. Occasionally gaps appeared in the contents of the shelves, or markers stuck out at odd angles. Stahlig's desk was set close to the far wall, and it was covered completely by mounds of papers and tablets, as were the two small chairs set before the desk. Behind the Medicine Man lay glass cases filled with phials and boxes.
Stahlig did not look up from his work as Ronin entered but he reached out behind him and got a clear bottle of amber wine, and from somewhere produced two metal cups, which he blew into perfunctorily before filling them halfway. He looked up then as he held one out. Ronin took it, and Stahlig sat back and waved an arm expansively.